By Richard LeDue
Past tense, meaning they're already gone, just barren shelves, pretending to feed desires we believe more in than any god, translated into every language, but we need to understand the translator has to eat too. And when there's nothing left inside the cardboard boxes, we'll still reach in, asking where it went, angry at a world that perfected “buy one, get one free,” and made us think we need boot straps, even when our feet are bare. Our upset, shrivelled faces don't last long enough though. Soon, the new fliers arrive, promising us paper thin salvation.
Almost no one understands his need for midnight poems: listening to dead stars whisper their last words, of how entire planets were gone before their light became a lie, and we can do nothing, but follow them.
Boring Death to Death
I pretend to make friends with the worms, talk to them politely in my head, avoid sensitive topics like fish hooks, never mention early morning robins- the conversation boring, appropriate, like those who believe they deserve a prepaid funeral (argument over what shade of grey on the casket with their colourblind spouse), imagine immortality inside memories, while forgetting death isn't always about dying.
One thought on “Sold-out Dreams and Other Poems”
I found Richard LeDue’s poem “Boring Death to Death” to be reflective of the different thoughts we all sometimes think of during our days on earth. While I found most of the lines to be sort of generalizations of a free-thinking individual, I was struck by the sudden focus on the subject of a prepaid funeral–particularly when it came to the specific shade of a deceased person’s casket. Frank Kowal