cobalt

Uncle Lawrence, tapping his belly:
O, you should see the place on Memorial Day, if
you think THIS is a lot of flowers. A southern tradition. Like any
good ol southern boy ought to do. To
pay respects. More like a chance to see folks you havent
seen in a few years. And they collect dues.

Standing with my cousins, the tombstones
have open books on them, stone books,
but the pages are blank.

Heres a new grave. Dirt in blocks. Its so new
and so muddy, Im afraid Ill fall in.

There are photos
of some of these people mounted on their stones like ornamental broaches.
This one has fallen off, there is just a bland spot.

I am looking for a photo of a girl my age.

Another woman to dissect --
that poor girl
If only I wasnt so sick all the time she said,
constantly reminding me of my mistake.

Here, a photo of a child that only lived one day. There are so many stones,
death on the day of their birth, and to associate
poetry with abortion, life listed in one sentence, a scratch on the
calendar, lambs chiseled on the top of the stones, pink and blue flowers
poked into the grass, shivering on wires. To associate creating with death,
surrounded by cut grass (she knows that the lawnmowers chip the stones, I dont care
if they are marble) so many births, so many silk flowers ebulliently littered
in the shadows of these hard monuments.

Representatives of the unsignified,
know only the stones.

And this.
Hascue standing by the mirror,
smelling of an aftershave that cannot be identified,
I am asking him a question that does not exist,

and he is telling me to ask somebody else.

AS THOSE DOOMED NOT TO EXIST, I AM BOUND TO FAIL.

SO I REALLY CAN OFFER NO EXPERIENCES, OR FIND
ANY PRECISE COORDINATES.

CHATTERING

WITH JOLLY SPIRITS/ IN FITS OF MIRTH,

I HATE THIS POEM BECAUSE I AM IN IT.