Death surrounds us with blatant arms. <br />A sanitation worker dies and no one <br />cares, but banshee phones striking at midnight, <br /> <br />summoning the equally unknown people <br />to altars of rancor and resignation. <br />What do they do but recognize a human <br /> <br />in the grip of edgy, illegible lives, <br />the ritualistic mouthing of platitudes, <br />cold and incurable as dry, winter snow? <br /> <br />Bleak living room. Soon the owner won't live <br />in the area for living, the area's dark aria - <br />a moment of meth, mirth and minions. <br /> <br />Take that bystreet to oblivion, <br />to namelessness, to fingers on hardware, <br />to the antinome of more pure breaths. <br /> <br />By his own hand - a homemade gun, a killing <br />of the flesh and the direction of the flesh - <br />alone, in the basement of barren wind<br /><br />Lamont Palmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/suicide-in-an-old-house/
