john tiong chunghoo

(Jan 21,1960 / NEW YORK)

Richard Cory


a richard cory can make a home in us
no man is an island to life and death
and everything in between
now and then we are driven to the edge

the office, the school, the parish everywhere
a Cory haunts with the blood of his thoughts
flowers shrivel in the dungeon of his depression

tragedies are hatched in the cold nest of humanity

the face curves a mask to help the real selves live
the mouth plays traunt to create a mirage

a man walks a smile with ghosts feasting on his miles
there they patiently wait for the real catch of his traps

a friend laid himself on the tracks and
a train tore through him

regrets like a steam engine rumble through the years
they look for answers behind the shroud
Cory had sewn stringing, longing for
the buttons he never got all his days

we are tortoises - as a reptile readied to have him
whole feet, head, legs, entrails, blood and all -
in the darkness of our shells

the hassle of life clouds life like a calm river starving crocodiles lurk

we cant even see whether it is their tails or heads
slashing, lashing, splashing their way to us
raining a slush of hot blooded foamy death

Submitted: Friday, October 14, 2011
Edited: Sunday, October 16, 2011

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