Dia De Los Muertos


Some of them young in years
Driven, eager for the algorhythim
Trending towards Tahiti, white sands
Frosted rum drinks, ocean front property
And shimmering silk scarves

Some of them old, bent, not yet
Drained of desire, befuddled and bothered
By all manner of ailments

Some of them scarred, sutured and stained
Shuffle, spin, spit and scratch-off
A toxic waxy veneer hoping
To peel away opaque ink
So as to reveal the three
Queens of compassion

Some of them held the promise
Of clear thinking close
To their breast confident
It would guide their quest

Basic CMYK

Some descended into madness
Xenophobia, caustic orange rind embellishments
Involving a sixth floor book
Depository window, a Manlicher Carcano
Automatic, greased, gray and ready to go

Some saw windmills
When a whispered breeze
Would have spelt relief
And resolve

Some saw the stump
The citadel… the chamber
Of chambers wrapped in black
Velvet – austere for its revered

Some saw the stars
The stripes
The wavering paragons of red
And white
Now blowing so blue

The circus was a gas
But now the big top is ripped
Soiled, stained and smeared
A gimcrack allusion
To what it once hoped
It might be
Or what we all
Will likely become
Warm solace
Settling into the shape
Of our bruises
Bent back broken
To blame the river
For a thirst
We cannot quench



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