Ray Bradbury said, "There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them." And, "Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down."
Half-way to Heaven
or Where was God?
These were my girls- stacked
like cord wood naked next to a ditch.
Limbs in all directions, along with men-
a death orgy in shades of black & white.
Once we stood in bars leaning on one another
touching layers of material to fumble arousal.
Their names so easy
When I entered this death place; fatigue-clad
led by stench to this magi-less scene,
those alive like ghosts from a Dickens’s tale
pointed to these heaps of limbs, half-way to heaven.
Modesty untangles the bodies
as those filled with sin and dust
drag and straighten atrophied appendages
These are not just
my girls, come to think of it
they are me
they are you
the abyss the tight rope.
I danced with her
I’d know her ankle anywhere,
and yes that knap of neck, now
so elongated that my lips
would fit thrice in that space-
when one kiss was always
enough. Those places on bodies
we never mentioned but moanly vocalized-
splayed to nausea and averted eyes
and no light. There is no light.