Geoffrey Gatza, editor of Blazevox, will be reading this Sat, Oct 11, at Hudson ArtsWalk Lit Fest. Please share and join us! And, let us tempt you with a preview of his work: Henry Darger Dreams of Emily Dickinson Easter Morning I see you lying there, slumped over in the street. You look In peace, peaceful, peacefully resting as if you were asleep. Only you were not asleep on the couch, or in your chair. You were face down in the road, resting, lying and waiting. Objects come speeding past us as we drive down the street. More cars pass, we travel on. I avert my attentions elsewhere. I imagine you with that toothy, interested grin gleaming. Disgrace. Our gaze follows the divided road home. I try to forget you lying there. I cannot see you in my home; you are dead, lying on the street. That’s how I’ve come to know from solitude, how I know, knew Your windsongs. They are in the street face down, lying there sad. Accommodating the farcical arrangements, I pick yellow flowers. I, in my dark home, I keep seeing you there, dead alone. The breeze Blowing, shifting your hair with the winds directions. We are lifeless There is no peace left in the world. We are all scared, we run north When danger sounds, as peccadillos roaring through rustling trees. In the days that passed, time eats away the skin, wind blows the pong. Promise you won’t ask me to tell you how I knew. My eyes labor, My heart cries, my mind ebbs in aches and pains. This is the grief Of those left behind. We drive away as if the unknown occurred. At ten fifteen we long for the respectable time of midnight, the bells Sound triumphant over death. We smell of thoughtful repentance. For three days you lay there waiting for us to pick up your remains. Never are the bodies recovered, we were unable to identify them. We are unable to recognize a dead woman because we hate the weak And the poor. The dead never come around to say hello, so we refuse To open the door. I cannot perceive you anymore, I saw you lying, Slumped over in the street. Only you were not asleep, were you? You were face down in the road, resting, lying and waiting. I imagine you with that toothy, interested grin gleaming. Disgrace. My heart cries, my mind ebbs in aches and pains. This is the grief Of the peaceful, peacefully resting while you were asleep in death. I, in my dark home, keep seeing you there, dead alone. Our moonlight Was jealous of my leaving the scene. We did not a thing but witness You passing. I was with you in my imagination. I believe I took you home In a cedar box and a clean cotton washing towel. We do not make it happen. We washed your body with scented oils. We decorated your body with lilacs and gardenias. We hoisted our voices to a god who rejected you while you were alive. We sang sad songs of brave artists who stated all the ideas that made you alive. I see you lying there, slumped over in the street dead. I consider why there is no synonym for the word you. If I pray hard enough, the myth of Jesus comes to mind On my beads I pray you that will rise again revitalized. This morning the sun dances in observance of Easter and You still wait to be removed. Taken from the street and now Lie on last season’s grass. Thursday you were obviating, today You are among the honored dead memorialized as a sacrifice. I vowed to the stars above that I would take your body home. I vowed to my grandfather’s spirit that I would pick up your sleeping Body, bring you to the side of the road, damn you for your disregard Of all things human, and with a slight stroke, caress your cheek while you passed on. I did nothing but come home and think fine thoughts while I drank Inexpensive whiskey. Smoked my mind to sleep while you rested on Cold black tar, an asphalt bed, waiting for me to come and save what Earthily remains congealed on the path towards my home. I sang. If you come to my home I will gladly give you a gentle libation. We will sing songs of nations that are no longer nations. Special Times with tons of water under fallen bridges. We sing old songs And think of ways to lie to ourselves that we are fine upright folks. As time goes by we hum the old songs. We try to carry our heads On our shoulders. We must remember that sighing is only show. As time goes by we recall old lovers with regretful souls. Seagulls. We met the moment you died; we are forever joined in victory. We are recursive blights on society. We deserve to be hit by cars. We are not like you, dear reader. You can survive the everyday Deaths of sleeping America. We are all asleep at the wheel. Driving Toward Wednesday, the day of the blood moon eclipse. We drown. Pax Invictus As we walk down the path of viciousness, sympathetic embers burn For those souls seeking the righteous way to advance. Eviction from Here is the only way out. We choose whom we choose for reasons Only known to the chooser. We see in our hearts the glory of those To whom we may choose to be born. Out thoughts become biology. See as the life we so dearly wish to further advance upon understanding. I will hold your hand until you make your selection. We shall sleep by The riverbank drinking and forgetting until the time becomes clear. If you make me beg, I will take up your game once again and we will laugh. That time arrives. Here we are, on the shores of the river Lethe reading. When I opened the trunk of the car, you were laying there pretending To be dead. I shook your torso and you giggled, you gave up your game. I knew you were only sleeping. I ask you why we are here. You kindle Your imagination and remind me that we are here to forget our past. Relieve the memories of beforetime and find nothing as the answer to everything. Time means little in the guff of the hungry. Rills upon rills of water Never extinguish the ticking timeclock of tormented reminiscences. Thirst. Thirsting for a car to steal, a driveway to pull out of, and a home To leave. A disaster to place oneself into if only to forget how dull It is to live in the northern suburbs. We wait for something to happen, As if something might actually occur sometime soon, to help us forget The laundry to be cleaned, how many feet tread upon our clean floors. As if the shadows might actually close in on us sooner than we expect. As if some answer might offer an explanation sometime soon, to let go Memories of beforetime and locate everything as the answer to nothing. Living estranged from our bodies on the river Lethe, I hold something That reminds me of your hand. We sing old songs because there are no New songs to be discovered. We wear old hats for new hats are not made In Hypnos. We cave in on our desires and dance to a melody of canticles, And in that desire we find our new home, we glide eagerly towards birth and thus life. And so we are born again new. New waters rise from saltlands once desert. The salt becomes sugar and the ravens become doves. We weep no longer. We sing in joyous praise for all life and all things living. All dearly beloved, We clasp our hands to one another’s chests and feel a beating heart beating. Warmed by the blood of living beings and glory over glory we are still alive. Alive by forgetting our past deeds and previous lives we are born yet again.
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 11:12:37 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015