James Bradley

I spent years trying to live poetry,
trying to split the atom of each word,
each unit of experience, each day
of squat deprivation in sparse rooms
chasing enchanted mimicries of psychic idols,
while all the time seeking a partner
who would gather with me,
like kindling from the forest floor,
the last vestiges of freedom
from this dying universe.

I never found that friend,
finding only the ones who couldn’t understand
that words can only describe themselves,
and that the kingdom of poetry
is not of these words.
Today I inscribe tombstones (such as this one),
conjuring a little bit of the old magic
for an hourly rate, hourly living
my own death, learning again & again
all the different ways a man can die.