Mary miles.

some funerals are gatherings.
commemorations and stories
drop easily from the lips of distant ones.
some funerals are a war
battles waged by lawyers
trenches and lines drawn
as the coffin closes, the first shots are fired...

for sure, and I like this,
regardless of the circumstance,
or which way the wind blows,
when a person goes away
it is like one pillar holding up the roof
has vaporized.
the space has to be filled
one way
or another.

at some point, we all have a turn holding the rooftop up so the kids can watch the stars.

the formula

the bed stays warm
long after the heart grows cold
long after the conversations become old
and the dream deflated
sinks into the sea.

the instincts of my toes
drive life
forward
only when I'm walking.

in slumber things can stay exactly the same for all I can see...

meat.

looking for the miracle in the cracks between the teeth of the monster that is feasting on your legs as you watch through the spray of blood is easier said than done.

I ain't done yet.



now I am.

babylon

los angeles is a war.
from the hills out back
you can even see
all the downtowns
like ten cities plopped down
in this same perfect valley
having it out
until one
bleeding
grins
standing above the rest.

los angeles is a tank in a war
a grinding
oversized
rusting
clanking
clanging
death machine,
with self absorbed hallucinators,
masturbators,
alligators at the wheel,
and a sadistic monkey firing the cannon away,
just to hear the thunder.

los angeles is a million casualties,
a million heroes,
a million saints,
protestant bystanders,
and the prize.

los angeles is a drunken fuck,
a leap of faith,
a fall from grace.

and it will never stop,
somehow we're all convinced
that this war is worth fighting
even though we know
it will never be won.