My Dad And His Dad

My father is ham,
sliced on the floor. Pulsating.

He is dying.
Without eyes,
without feet,
or lungs.

I watch his respiration’s as
they slip, so slowly,

Now is the time for tears,
but where could they be??

He already died in a dream.
When I was young, I watched
his casket get planted in
the ground.
My grandmother was headsick!!
Father was not a seed.

He was a musician,
and a bum with a harmonica.
A bastard!

He watched his father die, also.
His father was not ham.
He was on a rope,
like a pinata for a child’s birthday.

Reaper Robes

I met her, right outside the nine-year gates
with raggedy scraggle hair ropes
and misled eyes. I ran foolishly, the way a child would, straight
into her pother

black robes. She wrapped her presence around me.
Her absent face smiled down, impishly, at me
In shadow?
in old memories, perhaps?
I knew her!

Her face captured mine, she sucked
naivety, pore after pore bled dry!
She held on to my, now, advanced young spirit and
led me
to his casket; to his

Before his lifeless image
ink-smeared my tender life, his
hollowness entombed it!

After that day,
The Reaper and I parted ways,
still her black robes never left.

I ate them at an empty table,
they walked me down a long, long aisle, silk tied,
for a replacement man.
They draped dark weight across my house plants,
my pastries,
my daffodils,
my sex,
my love.

Until one day, The Reaper appeared,
with a hand outstretched
to me. Her calculating movements told me
who! Not when, but who!
I ran foolishly, the way a scared betrothed would,

leaving my plants,
leaving my home,
leaving my LOVE,


to the borders of life, I ran,
back turned on The Repear’s
robes, though they never
turned on me.

The robes….
those consistent black robes,
always carried consistent weight,
never dulling, fraying, or fleeing

just steady, unwavering