Today is Jim Morrison’s birthday and the anniversary of John Lennon’s death.
…and tomorrow is Ray’s birthday, in honor of which I have stolen this poem:
thanksgiving (revised)
I’m not one to give thanks
when things go my way,
for then I’d have to blow curses
every time it rains—
like a child banging
banging on his high chair
for his share of rapture
rapture for the day
and yet sometimes across the table
when everyone is there
and all slows down
and Silence bangs her soundless gavel
our mouths stuff with all the years at once
and the common realization
that all is here all is gone
all is temporary that’s all
And go go into the night
with the same wrinkles of my mom
the same wrinkles of my dad and chuckle
chuckle at this strange conspiracy at play,
this strange conspiracy that is dna
and wilder still at all beginnings
and endings.
And once more then once more
at the cold moon and the chill
of another mile alone,
for tonight you see
her soft pale memory
is enough.
Posted by ray sweatman November 23, 2005
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