That is not my father’s coffin

November 18, 2016

(for Leonard Cohen)
There is no poetry in dreams,
just rebel neurons firing blanks
shredding indiscriminately
the flash imprinted images
and dashed concerns of waking life.
And so I walk along the river
knowing you are not beside me
though I feel your hand in my hand
and taste saltfire and oily tears:
That is not my father’s coffin.
What is gone is more than past;
comingled with the ancient dust
and dander of the pharoahs
and television’s scratchy maw
gray and juddering forever.
We will pull sense from the static
or we will have no sense at all.
I watched Oswald pull the trigger
and Hitler take the cynanide.
I was burning for my lover
when I heard Leonard Cohen died.
So I’ve took apart my pistol.
I have cleaned it smooth and blue.
I will twist here in the vacuum.
I don’t know what else to do.
That is not my father’s coffin.
Ceci n’est pas une pipe.
There is no poetry in dreams.
Now I lay me down to sleep.


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