[Free Verse] The Death of the American Poet (28 parts)

[Elven Doritos]

How can this stranger touch my soul?
Does his specter haunt me?
I know the beauty of his mind,
His burdened knapsack far too heavy
Like doves perched on a crucifix
To mock the Prince of Peace,
So must all those who owned his soul
Been cruel, driving nails into his wrists,
Loading his pistol and pointing it,
Murdering the spark within his heart

The poet had no choice,
His notebook tells me that,
The hatred for himself, the greasy strands
Of needless pain,
The knowledge that none should keep,
Innocence withered from his flesh,
Until, in silence,
Knotted knuckles
Rapped upon his wholesomeness
And beat it to a pulp

I am not the Poet,
Not in skill nor form,
His beauty, darkly radiant,
Has been robbed from me
And I could not appreciate the chrysanthemum
Until after it had wilted

[Elven Doritos]

No expense was spared
My pockets, emptied of all silver,
Provided for a festival,
The staid affairs that skulls forgive,
The casket open,
With the wounds so neatly hidden
Beneath a veil, a clumsy wig,
To hide the Poet's missing mind,
Stolen by his bullet

The spectral woman, slender hands,
The ghostly wife of Poet's past,
Appeared and slid into the pew,
Sidling next to the nephew
What perversion, pristine prayers,
They said in silence, laughing
At the genius corpse

I wished a plague of scarabs
Crawling on their skin and eyes,
Devouring their flesh and tongues,
Stealing from them breath and laugh,
All their joy,
And draining all the mirth
From their sliding leers

But I am not a poet,
And neither am a sorcerer

[Elven Doritos]

Lies,
A million pretty lies,
A bleached collar telling lies,
Slandering the Poet's life,
Remind us not of heaven's boon,
Condemning suicide,
As though he knew what
True pain was?

A demagogue, snarling, snaring,
His words the snakes inside the Garden,
Liars, tempters, charlatans,
Were all in his employ
Dreading honesty, quoted Peter,
Then recalled the Book of Psalms,
Pretty nothings
Petty mothlings

Black tears ran down the cheeks
Of a strange woman
Garbed in red
The Poet must have hated her,
So blind to proper color

Or perhaps for that,
He loved her most

[Elven Doritos]

Onward Christian Soldiers?
A grin, twin dancing hands?
These were her best shows of remorse?
For being among those who had
Put His soul right out to death?

Her flaring pipes of brass and wood,
So chiding in their little way,
Boast of peace and inner hope,
Stolen from a Holy Ghost,
How I loathe her morose smile

Forever chained and shackled to
Her peddles, keys, and music sheets,
Her fingers, ballerinas,
Know not when their beauty is
Resented, appalling, and reviled

She wears a sweet perfume,
Perhaps with hopes to find a friend,
A groom trapped in this haunted room,
Damned by her exquisite hate,
She holds contempt for the Poet

I hear it in her dexterous dance

[Elven Doritos]

The gross facade continued,
As more gawkers hurried in,
Hoping to steal some glory,
Some sense of time,
Some feel for death,
Some satiation for their
Curiosity

The women, with their faces
So neatly painted white and red,
Were they clowns or worse?
Who brought them here?
Did they know him or did they
See right past him?

No one knows my sacred treasure,
Wrapped inside my coat and scarf,
The Poet's last and secret words,
I know now what sparkling stanzas
To which his heirs so quickly cling

Sepulchers filled to the brim,
Monolithic monuments,
The hieroglyphs of noblemen,
Pharaohs of the modern times,
These words were tied together,
Binding shut the poet's life

[Elven Doritos]

The singer of the dirges,
Whom I so nobly had beseeched,
Rendered thus a hurried tune:

"May Gabriel embrace you,
With choirs singing and resounding,
May angels hold and brace you,
And feel the Spirit, all-surrounding"

Hardly worth the
Thirty pieces of silver
That he had demanded.

[Elven Doritos]

A homeless man,
The nephew, reluctant,
An usher,
The mortician,
A stranger's husband,
And I,
As pallbearers,
Hefted thus the Poet's bed
And carried it out into
His velvet chariot

Satin, tempered, dark and gloomy,
The driver nodded at me,
Snorting putridly,
And hiding his contempt,
Behind his mirrored window-eyes

He yearned to see the notebook,
Wanted to defile it,
And when he brushed against me,
And pressed the book into my chest,
Rage shot up my spine,
And left my mouth disfigured,
Curled and curdled by his
Jealousy

[Elven Doritos]

The poet once had been a soldier,
Something that I had just learned,
And Veterans, with guns in hand,
Most too old to hold them right,
Marched in line and in lockstep,
Giving the Poet his due

Their uniforms were clean and neat,
Their faces filled with proper grimness,
Surrounded by smiles, false and full,
Their stony faces were the beacons
Of great honesty

In the pale afternoon,
As gunfire rang out across the graveyard,
Birds drew themselves into the sky,
Folding themselves in clouded joy,
Oblivious to the pain of men,
And to those gathered,
Instead flying in formation,
Perfect and untangled

[Elven Doritos]

Words were through,
I waited for his wooden box
To be lowered to the ground
For still, I was in disbelief

A symptom of my adoration,
Strangled all my common sense,
And left me paralyzed,
Without his guiding hand

Deep beneath the earth bereaved,
With worms that wriggle and decay,
Sits a poet deep in sleep,
Never to awake again

In eons past, he will be gone,
His body turned to ash and dust,
Washed into the river sand,
And trampled by the animals

The glades of grass will feed on him,
And none will know he ever lived,
Buried, buried, all alone,
His circle left unbroken

[Elven Doritos]

I returned into this town
The home of corpses and of ghosts
I saw a woman in a gown
And knew the Poet loved me most

I feared the day I'd join him,
For now I held his sacred book
I had to see it published,
No,
I had to preach it, live it,
Become the Poet,
Save his memory,
And hope that through my body
His spirit could live on

Here, in this plot,
Generations of names,
Stretching back to a genesis,
Some patriarch,
Short centuries ago,
All are buried and marked duly,
Until such time as we are gone,
And none are left to care for them

[Elven Doritos]

I asked the nephew,
The ex-wife,
I even asked the homeless man,
The men I knew from the pub,
The long-nosed preacher,
The eulogist,
What to write upon his stone,
And all but I were left
indifferent.

And so, my body shaking,
As my mind began to quiver,
I took a pen and a book,
And wrote and wrote and wrote
Until my blood mixed with the ink
And my mind reeled with doubt

How could I capture
The Poet's true beauty?

I took the Poet's red notebook
Opened to the first page,
And then I had the answer:

"This belongs to the Poet
If missing, please return"

[Elven Doritos]

My return became a rite,
A Sabbath held in irony,
I always brought Him flowers,
A rose, a violet, two daffodils,
Three chrysanthemums,
A daisy (a personal joke),
Thirteen dandelions, fresh-picked,
And a poem I newly wrote
Seeking his approval

I asked the keeper of the grounds
What times were best for my return,
He asked if I knew the Poet,
I told him that I was his friend,
That his grave was my shrine,
And he eyed me with suspicion

Perhaps, so weary,
Malcontent,
He cannot understand
True beauty.

[Elven Doritos]

I managed to procure His will,
His lawyer disposed it carelessly,
Into the dumpster where I lived,
Now that I sold my house and toys
Among provisions dull and trite,
Doubtless added by his attorney,
Was a wish made bold and bright:

"Burn my journal, burn it slowly,
Ensure my poems are never read,
And that the pages are not faded
Ever by the daylight's reach"

I was aghast and filled with rage,
Stricken by the sickness grief,
Hostage to a damning thought,
That I had done a great misdeed,

Withered by my carelessness,
Rebuked by my only love,
I held the poet's volume close,
And planned to fulfill
His wish.

[Elven Doritos]

O, Fate
How cruel and maligned,
You are a hospice bed
Padded full with swords
And embracing only those
Who scorn your every touch;
A locket hangs around your neck,
Your Judas-clasp, bought with
Money smeared with blood,
The coins that only traitors love,
You spit upon the commoner,
Enrage aristocrats,
And murder plainly all that's good,
Guiding all the muse's pets
To madness, hatred,
Creative pondering,
Morbid speculation,
And fascination with their end,

I leave this volume,
My will and testament,
With apologies unto
The Poet and his timeless craft,
Which I have so abused.

[Elven Doritos]

That's all of it. Comments are welcome.