Tuesday, April 25, 2017


The last person born in the nineteenth century died 
at 117, cooked for herself up until a few years ago
hadn’t left her apartment for twenty years
ate three raw eggs a day

Warships off the coast of Korea
I don’t remember this music being so gentle
I thought I’d have more messages by now

It’s spooky down here
I check to make sure there's
nothing under the bed

A python swallowed a man
in Indonesia
25 years old
as he was working the palm oil fields

Gabriel Garcia-Marquez also died (87)
and the guy who wrote Zen and the Art
of Motorcycle Maintenance (88)
outliving his son by nearly
forty years

and my coworker’s mother
in her nineties, living alone in some farmhouse
up in Canada
I don’t even know her name but I’ll bury
some pale whisper of her here
See if anything sprouts

The waves are dragged back into the sea
against their will
dragging their fingernails against the sand

And others

The wood paneled den
Two wood ducks, one female,
mounted to a plaque on the wall
in the semblance of flying

They found my coworker’s mother in the basement
she’d been dead since the day before
Some neighbor found her

Robert Persig, that’s his name

It’s been a long day, it’s too late,
I’m too tired, I’ll never get this

done on time

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