Steve Roggenbuck, carpe dime you only live ounce, 2012
smile at me using the dead girls mouth
it hurts with me.
im in california hugging with my dead family.
we're alredy
simple in the western u.s. crying in my bed
im dead with you sad girl.
i want you in the airports of my country
i am about the size of a dead nine year old
i am about the size of a dead nine year old
in her cool bed room
in september
i am ugly with dead children
it is early september at 7 in the morning
i want to listen to birds outside of my
bed room
i love birds
i love them more than humans
there are also dead
bodies hanging from my familys tire swing
dead girl, you are dead
i am crying in you and being fucked at the same
time by january rain. i hurt
when i move.
i am being rained on with dead
children now dead five year olds.
i dont care if my blood
chokes me,
i no longer want to have blood. i want your
cold pointless hands.
i want to put flowers in your cold pointless mouth
as for death: we inscribe names and numbers for the unnameable, because we can never know the full shape of what we are and what we will collectively become, yes? a friend of mine likes to look at old pictures and remind himself that everything that he might find there is already gone, even the dust is gone--it is different dust.
there's was an old-timer whose traces you might like to have a look at: he called himself bingo gazingo, and he spoke poetry in a frantic, semi-comic voice, and was himself a lovely poem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJ5M-MRXsX8&feature=related