Welcome To My Realm!!!!!!!!!

death wants more death, and its webs are full:
I remember my father’s garage, how child-like
I would brush the corpses of flies
from the windows they thought were escape-
their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies
shouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glass
only to spin and flit
in that second larger than hell or heaven
onto the edge of the ledge,
and then the spider from his dank hole
nervous and exposed
the puff of body swelling
hanging there
not really quite knowing,
and then knowing-
something sending it down its string,
the wet web,
toward the weak shield of buzzing,
the pulsing;
a last desperate moving hair-leg
there against the glass
there alive in the sun,
spun in white;
and almost like love:
the closing over,
the first hushed spider-sucking:
filling its sack
upon this thing that lived;
crouching there upon its back
drawing its certain blood
as the world goes by outside
and my temples scream
and I hurl the broom against them:
the spider dull with spider-anger
still thinking of its prey
and waving an amazed broken leg;
the fly very still,
a dirty speck stranded to straw;
I shake the killer loose
and he walks lame and peeved
towards some dark corner
but I intercept his dawdling
his crawling like some broken hero,
and the straws smash his legs
now waving
above his head
and looking
looking for the enemy
and somewhat valiant,
dying without apparent pain
simply crawling backward
piece by piece
leaving nothing there
until at last the red gut sack
splashes
its secrets,
and I run child-like
with God’s anger a step behind,
back to simple sunlight,
wondering
as the world goes by
with curled smile
if anyone else
saw or sensed my crime

Weep not, weep not,
Malik is not dead;
he’s resting in the bosom of Jesus.
Heart-broken husband–weep no more;
Grief-stricken daughter–weep no more;
Left-lonesome mother –weep no more;
Malik’s only just gone home.

Day before yesterday morning,
God was looking down from His great, high heaven,
Looking down on all His children,
And His eye fell on Brother Malik,
Tossing on his bed of pain.
And God’s big heart was touched with pity,
With the everlasting pity.

And God sat back on His throne,
And He commanded that tall, bright angel
standing at His right hand:
Call me Death!
And that tall, bright angel cried in a voice
That broke like a clap of thunder:
Call Death!–Call Death!
And the echo sounded down the streets of heaven
Till it reached a way back to that shadowy place,
Where Death waits with his pale, white horses.

And Death heard the summons,
And he leaped on his fastest horse,
Pale as a sheet in the moonlight.
Up the golden Street Death galloped,
And the hooves of his horses struck fire from the gold,
But they didn’t make no sound.
Up Death rode to the Great White Throne,
And waited for God’s command.

And God said: Go down, Death,
Go down to the Wasatch mountain range,
Down to Salt Lake City, Utah,
Down to Redwood road, into Studio 35,
He’s laying slumped in a cold dark corner,
bring me Brother Malik,

he’s borne the burden and heat of the day,
he’s labored long in my vineyard,
And he’s tired–
he’s weary–
Go down, Death, and bring Malik to me.

And Death didn’t say a word,
But he loosed the reins on his pale, white horse,
And he clamped the spurs to his bloodless sides,
And out and down he rode,
Through heaven’s pearly gates,
Past suns and moons and stars;
on Death rode,
Leaving the lightning’s flash behind;
Straight down he came.

While we were watching round Malik’s bed,
he turned his eyes and looked away,
he saw what we couldn’t see;
he saw Old Death. He saw Old Death
Coming like a falling star.
But Death didn’t frighten Brother Malik;
He looked to him like a welcome friend.
And he whispered to us: I’m going home,
And he smiled and closed his eyes.

And Death took him up like a baby,
And he lay in his icy arms,
But he didn’t feel no chill.
And Death began to ride again–
Up beyond the evening star,
Into the glittering light of glory,
On to the Great White Throne.
And there he laid Brother Malik
On the loving breast of Jesus.

And Jesus took his own hand and wiped away his tears,
And he smoothed the furrows from his face,
And the angels sang a little song,
And Jesus rocked Malik in his arms,
And kept a-saying: Take your rest,
Take your rest.

Weep not–weep not,
Malik is not dead;
he’s resting in the bosom of Jesus.

Death is so permanent
for those who haven’t tried it

Death is too tragic
when destiny shows up early

Death is anything
and everything
like those enjoying wine

Death is a white sky
at night and everything is great
for those who want to imagine

Death is playing banjo
songs without time

Death is a monster movie come alive
for those that have not died

Death has no direction

Death dies out another cigarette

Death is always on vacation

Death rolls the dice
behind whispers of prayers

Death is slow motion

Death is better than sex

Death is good as long as it is somebody else

Death is a sweet symphony
when it ‘s right

Anticipating you, seeing you again, a difficult joy.
I am again peeking through the cracked door
at you –
cuddling, giggling against the quiet lapping of the lake,
sprawled, feet against cold feet, beside my sister –
standing where I’ve stopped and can’t scratch my ankle –
the floor might creak and wake our families, or grandma and grandpa,
who needs his long sleep,
like splitting water behind his chestnut speedboat,
Old Glory flapping left and right, bow and stern,
tears breaking across his cheeks in the wind.

78 floors is about 936 feet, isn’t it? "Not counting the mezzanine?"
I wonder if you ever saw that movie?
Paul Newman’s great, strutting around, mumbling "Sure, Sure" all the time.
I watch movies all night now,
late into the morning, ‘til I pass out.

But I still have nightmares.
My sister’s voice breaks air,
sends the huddling frogs sprawling into the lake –
your split bones bristle in the moonlight,
choked up in flannel and blood splat through
your jammies — bone and flannel and little girl –
still little girl.