Cemetery Blues
When this black goes gray and the wornmost threads drift like fallen hair, I will yet be waiting. Marble eyes turned inward, incisive nails, brittle bones. One last scribble in my pocket. A note to myself, Mind eternity, let out the cat.

Puzzled toes, seeking resolution. I should have asked for shoes. I should have been explicit. I should have said a dozen things, rather than conform.

Stand me up, give me a scepter,
put a ripe orange in my hand,
crown me with pungent herbs,
face me toward the window.

Let other cakes melt in the rain, I demand one last train ride. Good-bye, my friends,
you look surprised. See you at the funeral.

Forgive me if I babble. So many years, you see. So many wars and worries. And these nagging roots inside my sleeves. Cypress, I believe. Oh, well. Better than most, as good as any.

When you take me down
to the burying ground,
see that my grave is kept clean.

I need some new guitar strings, and a harmonica or two.
This song is longer than you can know. Longer than you can know.

January 12, 2006










Previous Entry     Next Entry     Return to Songs and Letters     About the Author
Main Page
Author�s Note
Background
Notebook
A Listening Thing
Among the Living
No Time to Cut My Hair
One Hand Clapping
Songs and Letters
Collected Poems
Early Short Stories
Armenian Translations
Interviews
News and Reviews
Highly Recommended
Let�s Eat
Favorite Books & Authors
Useless Information
Conversation
E-mail & Parting Thoughts


Flippantly Answered Questions
Top of Page