nothing is as beautiful
as death says death
so red and so wet and gleaming
no song so sublime
as the backed up drain time
when the sewage of ages comes streaming
every now and then a city goes under
and rises up a name in song
then floats until the songs are gone
a scumline on the walls a while
but not for long
the waves we laughed at in winter in spring
slip the sand from under our sidewalks
nothing's so beautiful as death says death
that's the way death always talks
poets are not supposed to feel guilt
for the things that collect in their minds like silt
or for writing poems about nothing very important in the grand scheme of things
such as chili i had for dinner or the shape of a dragonfly's wings
yet sometimes when I read poems about untimely death
a hiccup of guilt deforms the rhythm of my breath
and when I read poems about systematic oppression
I begin to feel the inklings of a self-centered depression
whereas if I felt free to write of nothing in particular
who knows but that it might lift our weary hearts like a funicular
song of always being yourself
you should always be yourself some people tend to say
when what they mean is you should behave in a particular way
and if your self is built of scraps of selves a wild mosaic
perhaps you ought to pick a self a little more prosaic
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