(no subject)

Ends

Finally I will make fine dust —
disintegration will be dear
and in the heap of what I was —
in last extremity — no fear.

Ease enough, then, Emily, the end
of all and any struggle,
limp atoms that have danced
through life weaving pattern, pattern, pattern,
free at last each to be each.
No shame in this (be honest):
not all just dust, but allotropic,
heteromorphic, omnigenous filth.
A life of manufacturing thousands of times
one's weight in waste is not measured
in the scant remains laid away
for a formal grave reminder.
Death is expected, life the exception.
Here's what life is, in a slogan:
Fight entropy! In application:
Find new uses for shit, make food
and walls, and even beauty, and even
if you will, jugs for others' ashes.
In a slogan, Fight entropy!
In a motto: An end to fear.
In a maxim: Dance rudely, if you will,

the only damnation is to stand still.

Footprints, however faint, leave
impressions that may be read
as pattern, pattern, pattern, pattern.
This is all we mean by body and soul:
Incoherent matter has a pattern
when we name it ashes, earth, carrion, shit, dust
or Dickinson. Body is what matter we go through;
soul is what effects we make,
and fears and all we leave
for others, when nothing flesh is left
coherent enough to fear —
or love or work or dance or even die.

— for Nicole Skrbich
by John Calvin Rezmerski

Printed in Time Frames

Posted here following pnh's instruction: "When you see this, post poetry on your journal." You are welcome to do likewise.