POeT SHOT #11
BACK FROM THE DEAD by Ray Greenblatt
Renzie came back from the dead
really back from hell
literally he was dead and
was sent back. I believe him
his honesty is compelling
as well as his honest anger
he has nothing to hide.
He slouches over there
in filthy clothes and flesh
pockets jammed with swatches
of newspaper he picks out
of trash cans and gutters
--dirty is nothing compared to hell—
pretending to read as cover
pace a few steps then back
he tells me he is thrilled
to be here. Bored? Never
of course being really dead
he doesn’t have to sleep
but he pretends to
for the sake of others
especially the cops
who would confine him.
He loves hanging out
in this underground station
where people come and go
all the time—he laughs—
a little like hell.
He begs money to
sometimes buy food to
pretend he must eat
yet he does like some tastes
--not like during life
it was almost compulsion—
he also likes some odors
garbage at its rottenest
doesn’t offend him.
I could go on, as he does
but I have to continue
my real life as he his death.
I see Renzie standing there
in his great bulk
--in hell you don’t wither—
eyes shifting in their sockets
empty gums contorted
cursing the invisible
waving a dirty piece of paper
like a fatal summons
people swirling all around
used to his odorous presence
his eccentric reality.
We have seen many ghosts wandering through the year of poems above. Ghosts of the past, ghosts of our hopes, ghosts of our hurts. Renzie claims he has returned from the dead. We see men and women who seem to be caught between life and a living death. How did they deserve such a fate?