Laugh Before Dying
meditations from a cranky weekend
We are ink & blood
& all things that make stains.
"We Learned," Erica Jong
The moon rose swollen purple.
Mushrooms collided hearts
as the wrinkled metallic sky
gouged its insides out to spell:
“Love one another.”
In that moment, my hills turned yellow and we did.
Ink soaking into paper. Thinking
together they make the story
better than it is. Hope –
water at 32 believing itself
a new stronger creature,
more attractive to light.
Sticky catatonic ecstasy.
The wrinkled metallic sky
sutures sunrise’s whimsy to wit.
The calico threads of dawn.
More passionate than old lovers.
Crystalline fragile and reckless.
How can people reconcile the Sun
penetrating both the Earth and Sky?
My heart is a claw snatching at water.
Over New Jersey, water mimics
my desire – slashes the sand
bar; a happy hour drunk
on high tide. Later,
we will have saints for dinner.
I will make a pallet
next your bonfire soul.
The cackle of stars
a gaggle of albino geese flapping
strobe light protestations
a twilight picnic with our friends.
Sometimes there is too much.
Too easy. Sun and Moon sharing
the Earth’s jealous eyes.
And after too much, God
played yo-yo with your eyeballs.
With every jerk, old
fluorescent pupils flopped and stuttered.
An autumn stomach.
Aqua limbs.
Undertow deep-
throats the Constellations.
If suddenly, my cunt
had dreams
and aspirations. Circle
the correct answer. It would be
a. the water in your lungs.
b. the paper cutting finger.
c. the endlessly moving mouths
of old women pounding deaf ears.
d. all of the above
has never solved
any decent question.
Still -
trees bare themselves for winter.
Prepare. A futile slashing
against the smirking crinkle-eyed sky.
After swallowing a purple Moon,
we are still
Earth and Sun separate,
bellies full of Saints and delusion –
same difference.
I have placed my soul
on the edge of a snowflake.
Open your mouth
so you will remember:
laugh before dying,
cry for life.
We are ink & blood
& all things that make stains.
"We Learned," Erica Jong
The moon rose swollen purple.
Mushrooms collided hearts
as the wrinkled metallic sky
gouged its insides out to spell:
“Love one another.”
In that moment, my hills turned yellow and we did.
Ink soaking into paper. Thinking
together they make the story
better than it is. Hope –
water at 32 believing itself
a new stronger creature,
more attractive to light.
Sticky catatonic ecstasy.
The wrinkled metallic sky
sutures sunrise’s whimsy to wit.
The calico threads of dawn.
More passionate than old lovers.
Crystalline fragile and reckless.
How can people reconcile the Sun
penetrating both the Earth and Sky?
My heart is a claw snatching at water.
Over New Jersey, water mimics
my desire – slashes the sand
bar; a happy hour drunk
on high tide. Later,
we will have saints for dinner.
I will make a pallet
next your bonfire soul.
The cackle of stars
a gaggle of albino geese flapping
strobe light protestations
a twilight picnic with our friends.
Sometimes there is too much.
Too easy. Sun and Moon sharing
the Earth’s jealous eyes.
And after too much, God
played yo-yo with your eyeballs.
With every jerk, old
fluorescent pupils flopped and stuttered.
An autumn stomach.
Aqua limbs.
Undertow deep-
throats the Constellations.
If suddenly, my cunt
had dreams
and aspirations. Circle
the correct answer. It would be
a. the water in your lungs.
b. the paper cutting finger.
c. the endlessly moving mouths
of old women pounding deaf ears.
d. all of the above
has never solved
any decent question.
Still -
trees bare themselves for winter.
Prepare. A futile slashing
against the smirking crinkle-eyed sky.
After swallowing a purple Moon,
we are still
Earth and Sun separate,
bellies full of Saints and delusion –
same difference.
I have placed my soul
on the edge of a snowflake.
Open your mouth
so you will remember:
laugh before dying,
cry for life.
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