Son of a Cemetery Commissioner

Clam cakes. Moss on the north side of the maple trees. Stone walls that no longer mean what they meant being built. How guitars sounded in the 1950s, especially Link Wray’s. I never cared much whether someone swallowed or didn’t until I met you when all of a sudden I cared a lot.

 

You grow up the son of a cemetery commissioner you learn how to dig graves, you learn a certain way of seeing death. Pan-fried chicken with onion and garlic on a bed of rice. He sang Janis Joplin songs, he had a nice voice for the blues, I don’t know what became of him. We kissed a little, she was lovely and a good kisser, but it bothered me were near the quay in Galway, and “quay” and “kiss” didn’t fit in the poem I was mentally writing and she broke away asking “what’s wrong,” I told her what I was thinking, which she was not as charmed by as I expected. Composing using only the black keys.

 

In a lot of ways my writing process can be summed up as: will this hold a woman’s attention? Still not sure how Stephen Foster songs fit in the canon. I was too close to sex as a child, it hurts to write that, it wasn’t my fault and it did a lot of damage, I have no idea what's next. Snakes in the barn. Men who are covetous and quick to anger.

 

The devil takes the form of cats sometimes, sometimes crows, and sometimes you look in the mirror and glimpse something terrifying and familiar. Ruinous grapes. We walk through sunlit fields, we trail our hands over tall grasses, we are getting somewhere together but only you are allowed to know where. Mercy unto all sinners! This dance we share, this cup we hold to one another's lips, murmuring prayers of forgiveness and mercy.