Debasis Mukhopadhyay writes

lament for autumn 

       for Jay Zimmerman 

here yellow sullied by other yellow 

nausea 

sigh

a fallen bird on earth  

like time

the thud dies

in the sleep 

of moose marks

across marshes & meadows 

or if there was blue 

the skull leaked all over the loop of emptiness 

now what hangs loose

is a still life

full of leaves ripped from colors

[Here’s something that I wrote remembering a poet & artist friend of mine who died of cancer a few months back]

 Faces in the Garden -- Jay S. Zimmerman

THE END WHISPERER

The dead whisper to each other tied together by unseen strands of timeless wandering through the wilderness of pain, smeared like paint across the canvas of time, paint like blood, coagulated colors of frost and sweat in children’s screams over centuries of monsters squashing flesh into roads. Light breaks each morning revealing facades of long lost temples and mosques, of skyscrapers and houses, of bones piled high and peeling flesh. Sounds of mourning pierce like spears as corpses carried high make the journey down the river of insignificance. The wheel just turns and turns over days and months and years and decades and the grieving remains the same wherever its loudspeakers blare the voices of the weeping.  The strand will break and we will all soon be scattered into dark black holes and spit out into the hinterlands of infinity.

--Jay S. Zimmerman