an ode to my dead god

A PREFACE:
in hospitals, they don’t give you pens. 
                                                   just pencils. 
i hate the impermanence of writing
                                                   in pencil. 
                               as if everything 
could just be erased. forgotten. 
           i am used to scratching things out, 
angrily, 
                        until the paper 
rips. 

AN ODE TO MY DEAD GOD.

buoyed by
a catalogue
of existence, or, a litany
of Reasons To Exist,
my dead God and i
sit in conversation.

why?

i don’t need to say more,
God hears the rest before i speak it.
my dead God says nothing in return.
as if i should be grateful i was
caught red-handed, tears unshed
at my non-funeral.

i hate this pencil. it’s too small and
not nearly sharp enough.
there is no elegance in writing
with a pencil,
the words are thick and drunk,
blurring or slurring together.
i miss the days when they were
filled with lead, not graphite,
but thanks to the Herculean efforts
of one man i cannot hope
to poison myself.

why?

my dead God asked if i could stop
calling them my dead God.
i say i’ll stop when their people
stop using their name
to justify the death of my people.

when God stops being the reason
people can’t have rights.

when God steps in to stop
all this nonsense
happening today.

my dead God relents.

why?

my hand is hurting.
this poem is over.
i bet you wanted a happier ending.
ask my dead God.

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the last ten days of august.

what could empty you?

          in the weight
of our divines
the un    thinking
deep within us
strokes of pure spirit
      our fleeting fall

labour — the early war;
                 original sin
in between the earth and sky
            is the shade
            of the galaxy
why limit sorrow?
why blank the source?
             conquered,
             we go on
and put life first

ignore the    remnant artifacts
                      merciless undoings
turned pools,
                      nudge    of time
ordinary notes of care
unleashed poisons
etched
into skin

history’s suitor to time,
         shards,
                      debris
remember   remember
           remember
the blank silence echoing

days go on,
        fewer,
               sleep escaping
crying out
                   it was a home.

cursed nights into mornings,
         who can make of this?
what once was theirs,
          whatever is left?

emptied, murdered, obliterated
             an annihilation
of the ego
              the anguish,
                     the anguish

eyes still seeing last touch
feeling
ancient alone abandoned
what is a year
              a month
               a decade
but a moment?

—lost and burned
            futile devices,
fervour’s writing

mailed to the void

and the sea?
        the sea?

the saltwater dead, my love,
the saltwater dead

the last great epitaph
of our love:
           i am nobody
           i am nobody
           and you
           are gone

oh, August, a season deceased,
tell me again
the hieroglyph
of your name

winter’s fog

What is winter if not a time of death and dying, if not a time of hollowing out and burrowing into yourself?

And what is so wrong with that?

Bear with me here.

Why do we fear winter, why do we fear this opportunity to close ourselves off and take care of our wounds and our hearts? Living is moments of inhaling and exhaling. Winter is just one long exhale, before spring rolls in and we are allowed to breathe in the new air again.

nostalgia

do i still hear your voice?
back of my head
sings songs of your words
sickly sweet
like honeydew drops
in a glass of milk

an old movie
playing on repeat
the bike wheel turns round
and round

life in a snow globe
shaken to my core
touching the ends
of my existence
seeking to reach
spring

i find myself asleep
in a green meadow field
under a starless sky