necromancy

poetry reading - audio & text

As if being a writer in prison isn’t hard enough,

I often return to my cell, after college classes,

to find my things in disarray. All. My. Shit.

Books, shoes, clothes, papers, bedding & foodstuff

in a not-so tidy pile on the floor. I curse the cops

under my breath, my heart too exhausted to immolate,

&, faceplanting on the mattress, I fall fast asleep

praying Hypnos is more hospitable. //

When I wake in the midst of yesterday’s chaos, I tell myself

I won’t make it through the day. Yet, somehow, I always do.

The dreamer in me doesn’t believe in the impossible.

Ink is a prisoner’s unction; it seeps into the page //

like the sun in a field of daffodils. (Pardon

the symbolism. Nobody knows

the ritual disembowelment of the poet

like his fountain pen…) So I yearn for days without

a thought of home; & though I think it natural

to recall through tears the sweet years

prior to this self-imposed exile, I know, without a doubt, //

I’ve been buried alive—no roses, no candles,

no purple velvet to adorn my grave—

but then the feeling fades,

dissipates, as if consigned to clouds, & I drift further //

along perdition’s lonely corridors, its restless inhabitants

watching me with shattered wonder,

while praying to a faceless, unrequited miser

to exonerate whatever’s left of their souls.

Tell them the truth. The truth? You’re not a hero.

There’s no redemption, brother. Whatever you do

do with a finesse. & only if it moves you.

Fuck the world. Fuck what anyone thinks. //

Imagine the best version of yourself.

Let the universe handle the rest.

Everyone deserves peace & freedom.

Those were my victim’s exact words,

in a dream, early on in my bid.

Back when I was devising ingenious ways to die

& my suicide notes had really bad grammar,

so please, please, don’t judge me:

I only raise the dead when I’m honoring life.