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
