Walter Scott, I assume.

So let us not speak about etymons

using words in a language that flame up around us like burning books

when we know full well that death

(in that flammable eternize) in that infernal fellowship

is pure like water for our beliefs.

Walter Scott, a Black person,

age 50 who liked to listen to

music. who owned a dog, running in that

everlasting immeasurable optic time

signature, the kind that estimates judgment

and sermons.

Let not the evangelicals speak about

love or our need for it, or for the

lovebirds to speak about what it might be

like to lean across the bed of a dying loved one

as the objective study of themselves. What

Mozart and Miles would eventually mean

biologically.

Let not the prophecies of the dead

be like the menu at the repass with

macaroni and chicken hind quarters

sautéed  for the multitudes.  Or how

the young text out their heartaches on

their smartphones with mutual consequent separation

or indifference.

Let us only speak of how life, the life

of anyone, inherits the soul the faster you

run with it, beyond the sight of the ethicist

with prejudice or not. How if you haven't

murdered or haven't been murdered yet

suggest that you were not born at all

to a mother, but that you, like I,

saw the images in the womb, of how

this thing will end.

I dreamt last night of overturned grave yards,

unearthed epigrams , my poems were as bones,

what I placed in parenthesis, the divalent of

ripening fruit. The Lone Ranger commanded them

to drop their belts gently onto wooden floors

as the sound of it resonated through that

seemingly endless ritual we call, in this country,

justice. All the flowers were red and flowing,

vertical like those in heaven would be

had I not arrived.

Reviews

[Rodela]

Surreal writing.Wish I had that ability.

[h d e rushin]

Oh, but you have that ability Rodela......we all do...thanks for stopping by to read...dana

[Corset]

[Emily B]

My dreams have been swimming in reality lately. Or the other way round. Life moves on at an alarming rate. But you are here and grace is real. Much love.

[h d e rushin]

thank you my dearest Emily. Keep this in mind: you are responsible for me. So whatever happens henceforth, look long at the shadow you cast....Love always...dana

[Emily B]

There is a poem dancing there in your comment

I am certain

[Ken Simm.]

You are to poetry what jazz is to music. You create whole from an experience of life and words. You tell of lives and teach of living.And you can run with it, jam with it and taste it. The reader is allowed along but can only see the evidence in your writing of your passing. You are extraordinary.
The apex. As the youngsters say. The real thing.

[h d e rushin]

thank you dearest Ken...I am getting my thing back together.....I went fishing this morning..I caught 13 fish but i still don't have the nerve to scale and gut a living thing. So I gave them to my neighbor who has the nerve. What I mean is that somethings we don't learn to do, we bring ourselves to do. We drag ourselves back to it. We allow it to restore us..love always....dana