Inscription for a Funerary Urn in Which Repose the Remains of a Better Poem


I will go mad in my immortality if I forget
to remember that holy man, he who said if I forget

to honour his generosity, he would let promises
turn to regrets, swallow hope, and follow me if I forget.

As if I could, my unfortunate ability is to
call to mind everything; my legacy, if I forget,

would only perpetuate itself if forever let it
choose between my rebirth and dead memory—if I forget

to express my soul’s eternal indebtedness to him, if
by chance I transgress Jono’s blessing, thank him if I forget.


You know, you make me believe in who I am, to be honest—
I move in a life whose lie leaves truth dying to be honest.

Through prayer’s sacrifice, this threadbare Self has thrown away enough
faith to see unrest in souls denying love to be honest

to some black, blasphemous concept propped up and proffered to blind
masses lacking the kind of mind fools require to be honest.

In continents where cold hearts are darkest, I have walked upon
forest paths burned by silenced whispers trying to be honest;

quietest fires raging pestilence without notice, those licks
flames issued to confine Jono, lips sighing to be honest.


What’s given still goes around, spiraling down to its fair ground
a heart’s blown circuitry when generals command its fair ground

to perform circus tricks too electric for a room full of
freaks seeking with specific demands to ruin its fair ground—

too inferior to comprehend, far too insecure to
understand love’s power, standing-room-only crowds its fair ground

invited in send up shouts a heart cannot handle, not yet,
not until their heads stop turning and tune in to its fair ground.

What’s within will silently resound if you listen, speaking,
Jono, only when those fools and you have avowed its fair ground.