FOUR FEATHERS PRESS ONLINE EDITION: DEAD DAYS Send up to three poems on the subject of or at least mentioning the words dead and/or day, totaling up to 150 lines in length, in the body of an email message or attached in a Word file to donkingfishercampbell@gmail.com by 11:59 PM PST on November 15th. No PDF's please. Color artwork is also desired. Please send in JPG form. No late submissions accepted. Poets and artists published in Four Feathers Press Online Edition: Dead Days will be published online and invited to read at the Saturday Afternoon Poetry Zoom meeting on Saturday, November 16th between 3 and 5 pm PST.

Monday, November 11, 2024

James Luke Stilwell


SO ME AND DEATH


You know, dying, which is what 

I’m doing but we all are in our less 

and more obvious ways


Death

2000 in India due to a heat wave 

and what the fuck are you 

complaining about? 


We never would if we always had 

to measure our death against 

the deaths of the world 


I guess the real question is asking

anyone to care

Well, I want my loved ones 

to care


Yeah big revo there 

and anyone else who wants to 

would be a blessing


So me, and death

Not dying

The final blow of darkness


I’ve never thought about it much

My philosophy was always 

in universe building stuff 

All the grand stuff 

but death


Never thought about it 

in the same detail I waged 

in my purpose of the universe 

Questions I orbited about 

in high school

Never acknowledged it 

more than a vague big end


Heaven? 

Yeah, that’s something 

I couldn’t accept 

in so many ways

The Christian heaven— 

our souls living as our bodies 

or individual egos


So then you get reincarnation 

and that was never a comfort

Always wanted that I survive 

and you get obliviated 

Same as if nothing was 

waiting for you


Plus you don’t get to jump out 

of the system as you do 

with pure nothing though again 

it’s not like you’re going to 

recognize the moment


Damnit! Infant enthroned 

Ego enthroned

That’s what I’ve always wanted 

That it isn’t matter, 

it’s my intellection

That creation at primary 

is intellection


That’s what the writing has always 

been about, so you can’t think 

about death then

Gives the lie to all that


I mean I would have to believe

I don’t know what to believe, 

but when I think about it 

too much, I get scared


Right now I’m just writing about it 

because it’s also doing a poor job 

of hiding behind every third corner 

of my thoughts, like it’s wearing 

a London Fog coat and sunglasses


How long do I really have?


—James Luke Stilwell (1968-2015)

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