Call of Skulls

I have been reading the obituaries, lately,
morbid perhaps. I also walk through 
Pilgrim Cemetery, at night, the place where 
my father’s tomb is, the place where 
his father’s tomb is. My grandfather was 
a World War II Veteran, buried with 
the soldiers. Someone sold a 
plot with the soldiers and my father 
was able to be by his father. The junior 
high school was adjacent. I was a runner 
and a fighter, always training. I liked to 
run at night… The feeling of flying, feet -
not to touch the Earth. Running 
through the graveyard, into darkness, feet 
somehow finding their footing, I would 
hurl myself into the unknown, compelled 
by an incinerating soul, which made of all 
things: Fuel. I honored my grandfather, who 
I never knew, who passed the year I was 
born, who I peed on – Who laughed when 
I peed on them. 

O The sight of my father’s grave, through 
crystalline tears, the day I got out 
of prison. 

I have been reading the obituaries, lately, 
morbid perhaps. In strange synchronicities 
life unfolds, the pieces coming together. Like 
finding random articles, online. There is a 
young lady buried at Pilgrim who may have 
been a victim of Ted Bundy. Her murder is 
unsolved. She was going to University in 
North Carolina, in the school library, when 
they found her, a single stab wound, dead - 
not sleeping. After learning this, I could 
feel her presence, in darkness, which makes 
Celtic knots around ancient trees. 

I have been reading the obituaries, lately,
morbid perhaps. I look down, unto my flesh,
thinking of the rot, which shall ensue, realizing 
how much I like my… Self. How beautiful 
I am – How beautiful we all are. Such a 
tragedy, it seems, on certain levels. The other 
day I wrote a poem about rotting eye balls,
thinking of the greying of the eyes, a miasma 
setting in – Over the clarity of the sun’s rays.

I have been reading the obituaries, lately,
morbid perhaps. The numbers catch the eye: 46.
A friend from my youth. Louis. He was in 
the athletic club with me, which my father founded. 
The information was limited. They mentioned 
he struggled with bi polar, such things often being 
a veiled explanation. Like… DIED. Suddenly 
and peacefully in their bed. My mind drifted 
to van loads of us, driving around the country 
to put on boxing gloves and throw hands with 
other youths from a diversity of locales. One of 
my favorites was the trip to Iowa, during the 
time of the great floods, sandbags stacked ten 
feet, everywhere that met the eye. The damn and 
the Capital Building. We climbed up these tiny 
stairs – To the dome ceiling. I fought a hard 
hitting slugger and outboxed and out slugged 
him. 

Reading the obituaries lately… 

Getting closer and closer. 

Louis was buried at Pilgrim Cemetery. Landing 
place of pilgrims…

Pilgrims of the sometimes screaming abyss of this

***

I think about all they mighta done…
All they mighta been
At the helm 
of 
this realm. Darkness as whirlwind 

In the darkness or light of the afterlife
dark box or white light 
evolution 
into 
revolution of form
from 
whirlwind 
to 
storm – To stillness. Yet and still 

How we think 
we 
thought and 
felt 
we feel. All of it righteous 

&

Real. From complexes 
of complexity 
to an
infinity 
of minutiae. Minutes to 

Hours. Hour to 

Years. This is your life: Forever. 
Sayeth the mirrors. Broken 

Into fragments 
of 

Fall 

Wether family big 
or small 
we all must 
DIE 
alone. That is all. Or is it

You make 
the 
Call.

***
Cipher
Poems
***

Move Photo to...

No albums found. Please create and select album.

Albums

Album Title

Privacy

Public All Members My Connections Only Me

Cancel Create