, but does it all deserve to be remembered?
in fluorescent tubes that line the awnings
in sidewalks mistaken for bedrooms
merely for the sake of denying the darkness
who all have names
in the butcher's viscera-laden hands
in a predawn cleaver chop
in a sound of force against the board's resistance
who is tissue who is bone
lingering in their former hosts,
abandoned posts, in the smell of work
in the smell of death between decay and fortune
who all have names
in roads that carve like deep rivers
in maps on the seats of patrol cars
in directions to city limits from Jesuit
stakes to Mormon billboards dangling
letters misspelled intentionally
in telephone wires in stranded suspension
in the hands of conductors guiding the power
with no command over the enormous sound
who all have names
I can see the purselipped intentions
pointing to lights
from the shoulders of god
cast onto a workbench
the last remnant
from the monestary of the abolished
resting on even ground
levelled from the face
of a grand northern mountain
overlooking the slope
of a singular life
of a child who
is not mine who
is pointing at me
in a slow demand
he is pointing at my name
like gauging the warmth
of human waters
awaiting a reaction
who points us towards finding,
acceptance, forgiveness
on our way backwards
up the unseen slope
on our way back to god,
or a cleaver, or a light,
or to that which we will not concede
and by our own momentum
our souls will be shattered
into beautiful living pieces
who all have names
May/June 2014
edited since