Dum Adhuc Fluit Sanguis Vitae Poem by ed purchla

Vital vita ebbs, an all-encompassing
tranquility, an ephemeral parade,
tick-tock tick-tock, gasps of exigency,
fading once vibrant pinks, laser-light fuchsias
and neon oranges, buzz buzz buzzing to a palpable
quiet, a vacuum of placidity and veneration.

No birds singing, no chorus heralding, no
beasts stirring or even waiting for the
vultures to swoop in, bearing superstrong
immune systems to stomach all the horrors
we've ever been or blamed ourselves for
being.

For each one, for all, the incessant din,
staunch fervor of existence standing
motionless, waiting for the bullet like
Chris Burden.

One death, one personal demise, one
place on the board, no longer taken,
so hated in youth but so coveted in age
it is as though the universe itself has
paused mid-motion.

There is an inhalation
of acquiescence, a doleful sigh,
recognizing this inevitability, and the
equanimity it brings.

For each one, for all, the incessant din,
staunch fervor of existence standing
motionless, waiting for the bullet like
Chris Burden.

All becomes mute and inert, the
hushed cadence slowly withdraws,
there is a reverberating sigh pervading
the air, vital breaths escape
from our fatigued vessel, the stutter,
start. stutter, start. of dying.

As a process, a sound of capitulation in a
war we were never fighting, instead, rather
thrown into it hook, line, and sinker,
without a moment's chance to go back, rather
evolution's absurd demand,
a sequence of neurological dominoes falling,
one by one by one, where some become
magicians, doctors, car mechanics,
serial killers or kings---models, soldiers,
teachers, actresses, tech geniuses,
politicians, judges, or shrinks.

For each one, for all, the incessant din,
staunch fervor of existence standing
motionless, waiting for the bullet like
Chris Burden.

Some find comedy in it all by writing jokes,
some write songs, write poems, write
novels, paint paintings, to express that
sweet last vestige of dissipation,
like an ephemeral echo, surrounded by a
whirling, lugubrious silence.

Silence for our loved ones, regardless
of whatever they thought might happen,
a peace for our loved ones, that we will soon
inherit, murmurs as if an immense burden has
settled upon the atmosphere, taken from
the backs of all concerned, no more
conversations had, no more that could've
been, as alone as we began, as alone as
we will all end.

For each one, for all, the incessant din,
staunch fervor of existence standing
motionless, waiting for the bullet like
Chris Burden.