Poetry Robert Spiegel — July 11, 2011 13:57 — 0 Comments
The Dead Rise In Celebration – Robert Spiegel
Behind each story
is a ghost
bending the light.
Try to be
yourself for a
moment – you’ll see.
Walk these
Albuquerque streets
and find out.
At night drunk,
or running the blue miles
of a marathon
until you’re not
there, but something
else is.
No matter who’s
left, you can hear the
echoes in a chapel
on Christmas Eve
as the dead
rise in celebration.
Play
Stop
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What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney
