in the middle of the mourn...

he'll be here stiffening
flat against this flower lousy
earth as the chisel plows black
all the goddamn soup crying night

here lies bob taylor
his cock was a wailer,
a blind teiresias blurting
out heavenly soothsayings
that made terrible swells in a head
soaring above such old, wrinkled dugs

a black girl once said he should do porn
that his parts were beautiful business people
calling in connections to rise up in the world,
sharing their private jets with anyone willing
to open their eyes to such slick propositions

others simply could not pull themselves together
without the thought of bob stirring up great sorrow
with that butter churning eye of his twitching above a
mouth whispering to say the flames licked the wall is
not a personification of the paint peeling inside of us

bob loved to laugh
the punchline of that
aborted fetus joke made
even the most bereaved
wail even harder, making
his work that much easier...
where he got off gracing our
faces with such brilliance, we
may never know for certain

if possible, bob would have wailed at his own funeral
the warm, tumbling blues, dangling coruscant on the edge
of his cheek as that timber made thing slithered into the
seventh rib of the earth, would've been worth every zero

since bob is not here, & neither are we, rest here a moment
take in this memorial of a t-rex sodomizing a sick triceratops
after all, everyone tries to atone for the tiny, shriveled things
near their hearts that always seem to come in twos. bob did.