Today, Or Not to day...

At the graves…

When the dead are roused, under spades by loved palms… beneath a blazing sun; at noon their voices are heard. Reprimanding, time’s manifestos awarding pride to those filled with faith. The elders lie here foiled in the mysteries of an after-life lived among mortals in harmony and balance.

I stand and watch florid grave tops, overgrown with bristled grass and graphite tombstones. Their tired feet pointed towards the east, that they would be awoken in time to stand and face the sun. 9 pigeons hover aligned upon a telegraph line, in memory of an obituary of our flaws… we watch the earth sink; coffins pillaged and serpentine mazes hauled out from beneath silent rears.

At that noon’s later hours, we set alight firewood, blossoming sparks clambering up the wind toward the ultimate void… and meat is burned; fumes bewildering dog noses… and rodent’s, as they criss-cross the garden mess. The sun slinks past aged branches, flushing a hot belt waved across my face, the sanctity. I lie atop a blanket of winter-chapped grass, gaze unto dim stars hiding behind light-rays, the smoke plumes of ghetto chimneys brewing cancer storms for infants to be yet born. Cars wail past in hectic frenzies, their music carried by a dry smoggy draft as though campaigning with itinerants to partake in a collective suicide. Politics gracing faint radio buzzes inside the house, sex scandals in song in this stage of machine creatures in time that seems to be in reverse.

There are the cul-de-sacs jabbering with bashes somewhere, punitive lust displayed with automobiles and high strung shoulders of feline street maids. This brawl typical of township penitentiaries keeps the night at bay, our zone heaving the rhythm of soggy folks and forlorn youths mingling souls in taverns posing for vortexes of mundane energies. Later I crawl along to grab two beers and browse tabloids of a generation obsessed with sweet-lips – and I find myself at a peace, wound streaks rubbed by flies’ noses. It is an orange dusk, dust rising above calm roofs of shacks dreaming under a summer’s pan. And I am home to reminisce about the elders asleep. To wait for them to be resurrected facing the sun-god toward their last reprieves.