Written at the William Blake exhibit at the Getty Museum on December 2, 2023.
Graveyard Poetry
In the middle of a museum
surrounded by the works of long dead creatives
leaving behind etchings we cannot touch
And brushstrokes we cannot get too close to
Having colored their own line work
Affecting far into a future they could not even imagine
Graveyard Poetry
to sit with death
and laugh
and cry
at the absurdity
of anything else besides the surface of this earth
What does it matter to me
to learn about the center of the planet
If the people are not being fed
cut off from the fruits of their labor
what does graveyard poetry give me
except a space to lament my hardships
before I too am relegated to feed the trees that will never know my name
of the fungi that do not care what I did in life but only know that I did it
indiscriminately eating through my flesh
until it is unrecognizable to my lack of eyes
Seven generations down do not know who I am
except maybe an inkling of my love for them
compounded together with the love of fellow ancestors that I did not even know
and converge in them