one
i hurt my back yelling at the dog for starting in on my biscuit (i left on the table)
(fortunately) when i swiped at his backside (in anger) i missed
altering the severity of my karmic retribution or consequnce (if you prefer)
two
there was a moment (may be) ten minutes prior when i looked at my plate and thought
oh! shit! i forgot (again) the meat mantra (!) (sending gone aingimals to (purported) heaven(s))
only to realize the biscuits were still in the bag (i had (only) eaten the hash rounds)
(i hadnt (really) missed my chance)
three
i (so) often fall (in love) (or what passes for love) (in my life) with the dead
with some particular dead (see: clarice lispector frida kahlo alejandra pizarnik) (for recent examples)
there’s (absolutely) nothing they can say to me (or) do to me
to help me or hurt me (is it safe to love the dead ? safe-er (to spend) your emotional cache
on those who (no longer) exist (except in the ways they still exist (of course)))
everythings tidier when they can (only) look at you (from) images of themselves
on a page or a screen
(or) (may be) as some rilkean angel (of sorts) hovering right outside us (inside us)
whispering things (un)written poems from the day(s) after they died the ends of
unfinished novels description(s) of lost feet or wings
can a (dead) kafka love us more than our wives or children ?
does he feel more (or less ?) an (imagined) bug today than then ?
(does he feel any thing ?) was there (is there) (some kind of) soul or very subtle mind
that managed to continue untraceable to (most) any one else…?
we can speculate (all kinds of) things (cant we, rilke...)
we can pretend the dead are our closest friends in this life
we can talk about (and imagine) (in our hearts) how they guide us
(how) we can feel close(r) to them than to any one living today
we can look (for them) on yew toobe or goggle
we can tell (our selves) all kinds of things about peepholes we never met
(and) we can act like its perfectly normal to interact with the dead (not the living)
here is her book listen to this poem look what she painted in her diary
we might say to any one who will listen to us tell them what was said
by the dead (who are) (smarter than us) despite being dead fer (so) many yeers...
four (an addendum to three) (and one to grow on)
(though) the dead can (not) (necessarily) yell at us or belittle us or (even) ?
look down on us... (??)
(somehow) i still feel the dead can (definitely) shame us
(just) by (their) example
if we’re willing to pay attention (to them)
(and) if we’re willing to feel
(appropriately) ashamed
colophon
(please) (dont think) im being (un)necessarily harsh on my self (or on you)
(or any one else)
im (just) saying what i see (what i feel) to be true
(and) hoping that in saying (may be) one (or both) of us
will waste less of our (future) lives
(nothing we can do about passed lives) (except purify) (maybe)
feel free to defend your self (your (daily) actions) (if you feel compelled)
(im guessing) i dont know you (at all)
(so) there’s some kind of chance i (might) be(slightly) (or (even) emphatically) wrong
disabuse me of my ignorance if you must
i (always) want you to…
feel free
(if you can)
(thats where
the magic lies)
For the record, dead Kafka won’t love you more than me (dead or living). I’m pretty sure