“Do you bury me when I’m gone\ Do you teach me while I’m here\ Just as soon as I belong, it’s time I disappear” (Metallica, “I Disappear”)


“Here lies one whose name was writ in water” (J Keats, epitaph for himself).

“April is the cruellest month, breeding\ Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing\ Memory and desire, stirring\ Dull roots with spring rain” (TS Eliot, The Waste Land, line 1 et seq.).

“The images of madness are only dream and error, and if the sufferer who is blinded by them appeals to them, it is only to disappear with them in the annihilation to which they are fated” (Foucault, Madness and Civilization).

no — not ever

no — not ever.
the horror,
the terror,
of loneliness
is nothing, but
for the insight
that it is

blue-gray city,
looking across
the harbor,
the steel,
sky, and waves
all seem
the same color.

stern faces,
serious adults,
so concerned about
some result,
so willing
to punish to
make it happen.

a hawk’s wings,
against sky blue,
a brown, red,
blue, and white
cornucopia of
multi-colored corn.

a proud, war-worn
face, 1940s cropped
hair, jaw raised
defiantly, vainly.

it’s mine!
no it isn’t!
you’ve had enough!
no i haven’t!

on the edges
of the party,
there was
a funeral.


it’s hard enough
to live
of personal decay
and eventual death
in this academic
stress culture
to worry about
to the agony
of sarin
or anthrax
in the air
or water,
walking down the street
waking up
is horrifyingly
and uncontrollable
i fear that
i have not
the wherewithal
to do
mentally straining
school work
and still
keep the
mental knots
of self
untied enough
to handle
sudden death.