Saturday In Hell  (daniel imburgia)

Let’s stop pretending that more words
Can change anything now
Even if we had faith once
Most wait their entire life
Wrapped up tight inside their tombs
For someone to command them
Come forth

It’s not the harrowing words
Themselves (if they have ‘selves’)
More like the hydraulics of
A great reservoir of power
Breaching the dike because
What gets funneled though spigots
Can not contain the force of flow
Against all our calculations
The numbers lied

Ashes and dust are more than the
Reckoning of bodily fluids
Signing the history of fire
Our own dried tears testify
No combination of
Incantations or sing-spells
Will roll the stones away
Nor lure us staggering into the light
Still bound in bloody rags


The painting (8 feet by 40 in.) has many images reproduced from Jack Kerouac’s journals (he was a really good artist as well as writer) and some images are from Paul Klee’s angels, as well as a few of my own embellishments.  It hangs, 'in situ,' on the side of an old shed in the woods behind my house.

Blessings, and obliged.