My Poetry Was Lousy You Said

It was
37 years ago
today
that I
took a
gunshot wound
to the chest
and died
on an
operating table.

In solidarity
with bad poets
everywhere,
I proffer
this garbled
and unfinished
offering:








night mares (a ride on the dream horses)/

i almost kissed the mouth of Death
so wan and thin was her ruthless grin
that when she knocked i nearly let her in
brazen her manner and so barren her breath
as she placed her face right next to mine
i could certainly see her dark eyes shine
no word she spoke but pursed her lips
and touched my cheek with icy fingertips
such a wintry woman i remember thinking
then dreamed that i screamed and found myself sinking
deeper and downward into a trance of no waking
curious lady, is it my life loan you're taking?

she said, i do not steal, i just reclain
and in paying your debt there is no shame
our night mares are saddled, the journey awaits
the black road before us, will you open your gates?
mental prisms and prison, the colors and the chains
no laughter in the hereafter, i offer you the reins
to the horse of forever, a steed as fast as bliss
but first we seal the bargain, i ask you for a kiss

i never married it's true, i said, but still i have a wife
and if only one kiss is left to give
if this lonely minute is the last i live
i plant my kiss on the open lips of Life
i will not kiss the mouth of Death
nor hold my destruction in my own tired arms
though i weary of struggling for ragged breath
and forgetfulness has its haggard charms

i will not hold the hand of harm
nor will i camp on the banks of Lethe
i will thaw myself out by candlelight
i will choose the day and refuse the night
she shook her head gravely, there were no tears
you answer me bravely, but do not think you can win
there are many more doorways, many more years
i remember you now, and you'll see me again