Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Death Was a Poem about Vultures in the Sun


I miss the blackened bones piled on the sidewalk,
stacked in peculiar patterns,
forming shapes that bent in the eve,
as dead bodies are rotting poetry.
They had a way of pinging themselves
from velcroed black walls,
sticky as labrador retrievers
hopping from honey puddle
to honey puddle,
as bees would chase the beasts & succumb
to their skin like flies on shit.
I miss when we'd bury ourselves, likewise,
like the grubs of the earth;
like worms in the dirt.
Once, many years ago,
I found the body of a deer decomposing
on the side of the road,
and pondered existence.
I pondered purpose in breathing,
the existential 'why is why.'
the organic matter sculpted of piss and liver,
melting on track with
the rest of the plunge - where can I find you tonight?
I pondered the animal's energy with the old woods,
the ancient mantled oak flowering sweet life
in freed spaces, and then now,
years later, the bones are still there.
Left to dry. Mummied in
the brisk of the delegated sun;
an orphan, naked, under a streetlight
at the corner of roads seldom traveled.
Shards of clay stripped from the remains,
tiny piece by tiny piece,
and still I wonder - where do you sleep tonight?
where do you rest your head? how many deer
lay dead by roadsides? how many do I not care about?


--Bryan S. Way just graduated from Bridgewater State University. In the following years, he will be living on the road and in the mountains, developing community with the precision of a vagabond, and exploring the depths of character that can only be attained through the willing rejection of comfortable living. And he will write about it.

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