most times people
can’t tell when you talk
to them from hell.
most times you look
about the same.
well that’s a bit
dramatic, isn’t it?
to position yourself
sometimes in hell?
walking through a
parking lot made
spacious and cool
by its vehicular lack,
a raven stands atop
a rock. is that what
ravens do, stand?
i’ve not seen one
lie down. can the raven
see me from my hell?
a bit dramatic
there, mutters the raven.
the raven stands
on a rock and
the parking lot is like
heaven, it is so
cool and open.
hell is like a coffin,
though a coffin might
very well be quite cool.
hell is like an unwanted
closeness. a sponge
in your mouth,
absorbing itself down
your throat. and
the parking lot is
heaven, it is open
and it is hushed,
deified, like
a cathedral.
wooded patches at
its far end, and
this scatter of rocks,
on which a raven
stands.
i would like
the raven to let me
approach it, to let me
walk by it and call it
“friend”. the raven
is uninterested in
my desires and
my dramas, and
hops bounces whooshes
away as i
approach. i call it
“friend” as it
perches, (or does it still
stand?) atop a holy
parking lot light
pole, denuded
of its duty by sun’s
July persistence.
it is evening
and the clouds
are righteous.
the parking lot is
so cool, the raven
looks down on me
as i walk beneath it.
can it see that
i am in hell?
can it tell that
hell never stays?
ahead of me,
a small child walks
like a drunk.
its mother quick
to corral her little wreck
before it trips upon
a rock, smears itself
onto the dignified lot.
i smile broadly
at them both,
and continue
walking by.
zakschafer.com 