Death (Very Mysterious)

I overheard a woman say to her friend that some other woman’s “father died, very mysteriously, from, uh…an, uh, explosion.”

There doesn’t seem to be a mystery. The cause of death seems concrete.

He died, very mysteriously, falling from a third-story parking garage to the concrete below.

The wolf, as far south as Missouri, died, very mysteriously, from a 300-yard rifle shot.

The sparrow died, very mysteriously, when it mistook the pane-glass window for open air.

The spider died, very mysteriously, when a boot landed on it from above.

The lifelong smoker died, very mysteriously, from complications of cancer.

Everyone died, very mysteriously, from [anything] and it was painful.

Sorry for your loss, lady. It’s not your fault living and dying seems so mysterious.

Living is Heavy Business

You wake in the morning

and everything is golden.

The earth has made another small rotation,

still revolving around the sun

which now cuts through the blinds.

The air is cool when you pull back the curtains,

coffee brewing, while the news turns to music.

Then life starts happening, the parts that make living

heavy business.

You have to go to work or school, or both

at this age. I’m twenty-seven now,

against some odds, cruising toward the old man

everyone knows I’ve always been. You find out

Grandma is in the hospital again, your little brother

whose diapers you changed, is one slip away

from prison, you battle who you used to be,

who you want to be, you battle to be who you are,

someone you know as well as the neighbor

across the street cultivating the perfect yard.

All of a sudden that light that was golden

turns red, the sky pink and impossible blue.

The insects start in with their hallucinogenic rhythms

and everything else shuts up and you have no clue

what to do with yourself. There is wine and bourbon,

your books, your porch and cigarettes, your beliefs,

which seem silly the higher the moon rises in the sky.

There is your love, if you’re lucky, and if you are

there is the impending weight of it all running out.

You take a long walk in orange streetlights, wishing

for darkness in a forest, or company. You walk

until you grow tired, done,

feeling like this could be the moment it all caves in,

the sun and moon and all, when its nothing

but disjointed dreams and wasted time,

when there is no time at all. You make it

to bed with a book or a movie and enter

a fantasy before sleep. Tomorrow you wake up

and there are still occupied hospitals,

prisons, battle fields, factories, restaurants

and theaters, and you know nothing is real,

but everyone, everything, is alive

and living is heavy business.

We’ll All Need An Usher One Day

Sat under a tree

and watched a bird die.

Sat there next to it

talking, crazy, so

it wouldn’t feel alone

when it died. Feeling…

Like I know what birds

might feel; broken neck,

close to death, singing,

flying. Either way

I sat there talking

to the bird, its head

flopped off to one side,

until that last time

its eyes opened wide

(Did it look at me?)

then closed on what’s next.