The Unfinished

by January 8, 2010 0 comments

Is better left
than gulped down
like a cherry Slurpee
the kids on Chickawa Street
choke down, brain freeze and all,
every day
after school
at 3 p.m. sharp.

The Native Americans knew
should never be attempted
or achieved
and always left an imperfection
in any and all
woven goods for cover,
protection from the elements,
and their Gods.

Which you are to me.

I cannot
face the ending
of your epic, your ultimate work,
a book of prose,
of tales tall
and thinly veiled
life’s tragedies.

So I sit here.

Once again.

In the dark
hung on the penultimate act
instead of tasting your final words
the ones you typed into the manuscript
before you shot yourself
with heroin
one final time
in the Motel 8 bathtub.

If I were to swallow whole
like Jonah’s whale,
the last morsel, nugget
of your best stories
what would I have to look forward to
in those morbidly dark, cold moments
with the power turned off
for bills left unpaid
and the thought of you,
the lust for release –
of your final words –
were no longer
to me?

I suppose one day
I’ll need to feed upon
your flesh and bones
to satiate my hunger
when there’s nothing
in the bookshelves
but Kierkegaard, Nietzsche or Dante.

But when that day passes,
I’ll have nothing left
in my life
to savor
and hope for
on the lonely afternoons
for what makes
little boy’s dreams
come true . . .

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