Digital Deaths

It had girls in various stages of undress
and decay, this video I caught in the net
while paddling from the beach that was
this computer café. They resembled fish
I gawked at as a kid who went with his
mom to the market after Sunday mass,
cut up and bleeding, scaled, their gills
scooped out so I was sure they were
beyond saving, the girls on screen,
shots of them interspersed with scenes
of the band playing a song about them.
I marveled at how death is nothing
but death, only bodies in music
videos. While beside me a boy cries
out as he dies and dies and dies again
in an online game, outside the world
is plugged in to this electronic vein
sucking the blood out of those living
and dying in digital, I am visiting
your blog, a graveyard for your words
unread and wishing I brought flowers,
mourning the radiant epitaphs.
.
.
Comic Aging

You always arrive in the studio
first, the more popular of the cast
being fashionably late, keep in mind
the few segments you will be in
totaling less than ten minutes
but still you wait for hours until
show time. And still you wait
your turn for the bright lights,
canned applause. They call you
out for one of the main portions
along with the other hosts and you
excitedly ask a staff if she could
please put more powder on your nose.
You walk out and wave at the crowd
clapping at someone else, an upcoming
comedian whose wisecracks you
find offensive and you do not get
why the bastard is suddenly so
loved. Throughout the competition
you try to loosen up contestants,
asking silly questions and making
sillier faces and feel a twinge every
time someone answers wrongly.
Meanwhile, the bastard is cracking
up the house again. You deliver
a joke you made up that morning
while waiting in the dressing room
and nobody laughs. The klieg lights
start to feel oppressive and you
wipe your eyes with a wrinkly hand.
You look out at the audience,
afraid they might have noticed.
Seeing nobody looking back, you sigh
and pine for the old days, how they
cheered. If only you could watch
yourself. If only you could watch
me here in the couch rooting for you,
remembering, old clown,
big baby, I love you
three times
a day.
.
.
Ghosts

We were checking the mountains
for ghosts. Watch out for flickering
light, moving shadows, warned one
of us shaking in sudden awareness
of the cold, possible encounters.
Submitting myself to the spirit
I pushed off the cliff and let go
of your hand, hovered over land,
brushed the edges then plunged into
the blackness of forests, the heart
trembling with discovery. Then I felt
something jerk me up and toss me
to solid ground, and when I looked
I saw your hand firmly around mine.
There are other things to worry about
you said and we all fell quiet.
We were thinking about the men
who wandered the vicinity while
we ate dinner with striking miners,
their M-16s, and the pockmarked face
of the mountains. Fearing the worst,
I wanted to cry but you took my hand
and thumped it against my chest. I want
to tell you how that night I heard
beating chants, epics echoing from beyond
the trees as I strayed from the group,
before you found me. But I have drifted
farther than you could have imagined,
thinking of a radio script for acne
cream here in the office, looking out
at the tall, flat buildings, and you
have been gone for years.
Opening a window, I lean against the
black sky without wavering and see
myself falling on the passing traffic.
All this time I have always felt
your hand, that now I have no fear
or wonder or even flowers
on my desk, only confessions
to make, this version of faith.