I'm going to read the new forms, pretty much
poems, so since his last book.
The first is called "Cemetery Nights."
Sweet dreams, sweet memories, sweet taste of Earth,
here's how the dead pretend they're still alive.
One drags up a chair, a lamp, and wraps the newspaper
from somebody's garbage, and sits
holding the paper up to his face no matter if the lamp is busted
and his eyes have fallen out.
Or some of the others grouped together
in front of the TV, chuckling and slapping what's
left of their knees no matter if the screen is dark.
Four or more sit at a table with glasses and plates,
lift forks to their mouths and chew no matter
if their plates are empty and they chew only air.
Two of the dead roll on the ground,
banging and rubbing their bodies together as
if in love or frenzy no matter if their skin breaks off.
But the generals are just a memory.
The head cemetery rat calls in all the city rats,
who pay him what rats find valuable,
the wing of a pigeon or ear of a dog.
The rats perch on tombstones and the cheap statues of angels.
And, oh, they hold their bellies and laugh, laugh
until their guts half break.
While the stars give off the same cold light
that all these dead ones plan their lives by.
And in someone's yard, a dog barks
and barks just to see if some animal is dumb
as he is will wake from sleep and perhaps bark back.