I rose from the dead
We’d all love to rise from the dead
and snatch a second chance
from the teeth of history.
Which of you would refuse resurrection
and leave the stones in place
until the winter breaks?
My death was cold
and stank of feces
left by swallows fit to glide away.
I never knew how long my death would last
until I rose again from the jaws of a mystery made
before the stars exploded
and the universe was saved.
I’m a poet.
I buy poetry books.
read poems (out loud).
run a daily poetry show
live streamed on Periscope
(The Walt Whitman Show).
Somebody. Anybody. No, not Maya Angelou. She died last year.
Unless you’re a literary scholar or a subscriber to The New Yorker, it’s not easy. That’s because poetry, once a preeminent form of entertainment, has long since receded to the far, dusty corners of popular culture…
In 2003, Newsweek cried
“… Ultimately, though, there’s no one to blame. Poetry is designed for an era when people valued the written word and had the time and inclination to possess it in its highest form…”
in December 2015, I did ethnomethodological research among an international, cross-cultural, mixed-gender, inter-generational group
Voices of the dead
(To be continued)