The Need to Bleed for the Dead
how fragile we are… -- Sting
Last night, a man called Horse opened a wound
to release his grief. I watched it slowly gush
down his chest, a dark tributary of blood
made real by movie magic. The need to heal
by vivisection captures me, an end
solution to sorrow that cannot breathe
its last, except through the skin. Just breathe,
I want to say, but the infected wound
holds you fast like a lover that just can’t end
this forbidden tryst, whose promises gush
forth with desperate demands to heal
the breach, the fatal humors in the blood.
What else can be done? To shed torpid blood
into the thirsty earth until we can’t breathe
anymore seems foolish. Can we heal
from bonds torn asunder and cleanse a wound
that refuses to close? Do we love the gush
of agony that indicates the end
of happiness as we knew it? The end?
Or just the beginning? Grief demands blood
tribute be paid quickly in one long gush
that will not be missed. Now. Let go -- and breathe
easy. This is normal. Otherwise, the wound
would suppurate and refuse to heal
as it should. So, do you want to heal
from this malady, or do you want to end
up a fisher king with a mile-long wound
that is poisoned by that very same blood
you refuse to share until you can breathe
in your putrid lies? Give into the gush
of unhappiness. Let the anger gush
forth. It’s normal. You’ll begin to heal,
though it will take a long time. To breathe
in a wisp of hope, to know there’s an end
to the sick lure of grief and that our blood
will run clean is what we need. The wound
will turn into a scar that stops the gush
of heartache. It’s how we choose to heal,
and it’s as natural as how we breathe.
What To Read to the Dead
Your poetry- first drafts.
The more salacious passages from The Story of O, but not the last 25 pages, because they fall fall flat.
Recipes - and the mini travelogs - from The Vincent and Mary Price Cookbook, and take extra care to linger over the desserts.
A Wrinkle in Time, particularly the passage where Meg has to fight for her little brother Charles Wallace’s soul. If you read this to your older dearly departed sibling, they'll hear it - and understand.
From the Old Testament, “The Song of Songs”; it's a celebration - and filled with joy. From the New Testament; nada, and from the Gnostic Gospels, whatever the hell you want.
Journey to the East, by Hermann Hesse, who transcended his literary despair to share a simple message of hope.
Wuthering Heights, to a dead lover, one that you're glad got away, because love - especially messed up love - lasts forever.
Your diary - or their diary - and hold back nothing, because it's a one-on-one elegy, and confessional, and apology.
Fortune cookie slips from the bottom of your purse.
For suicides, the penultimate chapter from Lust For Life, and whisper the last sentence, “You cannot paint goodbye”, and for homicide victims, Goodnight Moonlight, or some other gentle tale.
A letter, written in the last moments before you arrive at their grave - tear-stained and sloppy- the truth will be in every word.
Leave it there. And never come back.
The Neverending Lesson
One day, King Midas looked
out his bedroom window,
hands crammed In his pockets,
at the old pomegranate tree,
and became consumed
with envy as he watch her shed
a thousand filigreed leaves
with no guile or regret.
After a day and night
of watching the tree
prepare for her winter sleep,
he once again
came to the conclusion
it's not how much wealth
you consume in one lifetime
that’s important, but how
that wealth is utilized,
and this epiphany
echoed in his mind
while he sat upon his throne
and through gilded tears,
gazed upon the shining statue
of his long dead daughter,
a martyr of her father’s greed
and the end of his line.
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