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The space beneath divides
Golden hair
Golden hair
I remember
You now
We walked
From school
We couldn’t pay
The bus fare
Or at least
We used
the money
to play
the pinball
in Luigis
on the Square
listening
to the Supremes
on the Juke box
or maybe
the Blue Jeans
Sometimes
You’d hold
Me tight
Your eyes wide
So bright
And then laugh
And spin away
To jive
In that way
And look
At me again.
RAC
Walking from school
The walk from school
Walking home
from school
with a friend.
She golden
wrinkled haired
laughed smiled
I remember
her green eyes
the same year
Sylvia Plath
died alone.
The gas oven.
Town gas.
And she walked
home from school
to find her mother
lying down there
on the kitchen floor.
And Jackie
Had gone too.
War what is it good for?
Lest we forget!
Blessed days
A second hand
bookstall.
John Clare’s
Collected Poems
mint condition.
Unopened.
The spine unfolded.
Then a surprise
Ruth Benedicts
(my hero)
Race and Racism
from 1942.
Days like this are blessed.
Sitting now
in quietness
reading
familiar lines.
Gesture suicide
Gesture suicide
(in memory of Orlando and all atrocities)
Lets not confuse
Terrorism
With that hopeless
Act
Of the man
who believes
he’s nobody
and decides
to undertake
an act
of such horror
that no one
will ever
forget
his name.
Gesture suicides
are about that,
just that.
So lets agree
not to call them
monsters
devils
or psychopaths.
Just men
who’ve come
to believe
that they
are nobodies
stuck in a world
of the nobody
And who act
In an absence
of good faith
to take lives
so that they
will be
remembered
for something
at least.
They act
in an absence
of goodness.
The mark
of the pathetic.
RAC
