BlackBird Sung
Headstones line the highways under the squeal of rubber
left to smolder and putrefy the air, speeding on by people
take no heed of the dead standing on the painted line.
Waving at the cars hidden behind fumed shrouds
years and years of pelting rain rusting wrought ironed fences
built to keep spirits encased, buried in the ground silently erased.
Visitors come and go, cry and pray, adorning rocks &
fingering dates, missing the loved, hating the memories built alone.
No one is there in those silent death lairs, no one at all, they
have left long ago towing their spirit along, listening to the cries
of those left behind, they have moved on to a better place and time.
Millions and millions of stones, acres and acres of skeletal
ashes, miles and miles of carefully trimmed rows, all empty homes,
monuments to fear, reminders of time-carefully aligned.
Churches and crosses, flowers in vases, homeless faces, cryptic doors,
tattered tenements, and broken bottles, diapered babies and dirty needles,
plastic bags, hand me down rags, missions spilling soup like sewers running
over, smoking noxious clover, run them over, a dollar to spare, adorn
my lair, crown me with flowers, justify my power, pick the dandelions
and make a wish, bury the dead and make them weep.
Fuel the salaries of the funeral parlor, stoke the urns & feed the pyre, cut the trees and build
my casket, tuck inside the locket I wore, litter my face with pictures that will fade, cry over
the bed I’ve made, and teach me a lesson about lost love. Finger my gold rimmed glasses
and wipe the corner of your eye, cry and cry for your loss, make me bear the cost
for being free. This will happen to you and me, our bodies will molt and wither
away, yet today I breathe in this day & I will take my time to pray and pray,
opening my eyes with love and love, paying my dues & slipping in the groove.
What do you really have to prove, is there anything real to lose?
Deal me a twenty-one blackbird sung, rolling the cubes on my bleeding tongue,
speak with me on your knees, swing from the lonesome tree kicking aside blackbird
crows, walk silent among the endless rows. Squawk and gawk on the side of the road
& cover your ears to the sounds of sirens, turn a blind eye to the painted line and you
just might bide some more time and time.
Time and time again I think of when and how, today I stand proud and write with voice loud.
Walking with head held high kicking stones, heading to the corner picking out my last home,
a simple word will do to remind you of me, I haven’t thought of the right one yet,
but you can bet that when the day comes I will know that it’s time to cut and run.
Blackbird sung swinging from the trees, flapping in the breeze. Hitting my knees
free of humanities disease.
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