The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

August 20, 2005


we are making another day

whose death is this anyway
whose life and if i kill myself i hurt i hurt
everyone around me should one remain alive
on the life support of the other
necessarily there are complications
they'd end fast, abrupt, what a selfish act,
you'd have to keep on living, deal with them
later that evening, feeling the same way
for days this feeling will last
it is an everlasting feeling these days
one someone dies they leave a bad poem, for
example, the they not he or she, as if a
multitude were at stake or was, their
fecund death, now that we have written
ourselves in this fashion. i will add this
or to this later, will now abandon, perhaps
you have already, or would at this slightest
sign as if this were a poem, it is not.
but homeless it is, wayward it is, almost
the contrary of the poem of death, sung on
all occasions. death precedes me, processes
everything. i am so selfish but as my last
act i will leave no one behind, bang bang,
you are all dead. the 'eh' sounds is the
last sublime. what next. death always
already approaches, never arrives, cancels
everything in an unapproachable end, always
near, breathing down the corridors of being.
there is no other side, nothing to cross over
but the arms as the coffin shuts, last and
unregistered daylight for this body. i am on
the last journey already, twilight heeds me,
rides my back and shoulders until i'll
finally touch the ground. now guess what
our connection is down here and i'll come
in and out just for a second goodbye
goodbye and later, we have all made
another day

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