the fate of a retired writer

in the sun

skin blistered with the accumulation of accomplishments

the liver shot, the eye turned gray

the hair a metallic halo

declaring perpetual sainthood -

what strange gods has that atrophied

tongue tasted?

What ecstasies the withered body

sampled in the catacombs of cell

and sentence?

Surely the retired writer has descended

to the deep grottos

where the mysteries of the flesh

and spirit are celebrated

smelled the burning stench of herbs

and seen the mutating shadows

of the gods at war & play -

This goes without saying.

But the particular archaic vintage

of the wine consumed

and the particular orifices delved

in the sacral grove

and the certain stone upon which the sacrifices

were slaughtered

to summon the ghosts of past and future

The flail of the knife and the

sprig of the blessed tree

all of these

all of these

were different.

Are different.

So sit there, aging husk.

Your diseased bones reek of light.

You stare at the sea, the dun earth,

the wild circumnavigation of seasons

& humanity's unbounded sway -

you taste and you glut on the taste

for the transmission is done

for the retired writer sitting

in the sun.


Copyright Scott J. Couturier 2014