It happens. It’s bad.
It’s happened before.
It’ll happen again.
But for what?
Is yesterday’s bad shit a guide?
Or are battalions of totally new shit, already gathering
In the aisles, waiting for a sign?
The weight of what is about to hit,
Is almost as bad as what it is …
But strangely, it is not without relief …
the dismay, the shock, the destabilising … the grief,
the dissolving power of death.
In its wake, we talk.
United in pain,
shit is shared … silences broken,
the great unspoken is aired,
and for one teeny weeny, minuscule second
of our blind, deaf and dumb earthly existence …
we are real.
Thank God for shit.
Even pray for it.
Sometimes poems come in a way that everything else must stop or get out of the way.
This is one of those.
It came knocking today, 12 January 2010. Exactly 50 minutes after this poem was born, I heard the shocking news that a brother in spirit, a great friend – had unexpectedly died overseas. Aged only 42. A great loss to us all. I can only wonder at the mystery that connects us to each other – in ways that go far beyond our ordinary mind.