would you always blame the dead

i.
what's it smell like in the room?
smells like pumpkins wilt and mushy
smells like sticky slash stained laundry
smells like burnt marshmallows and lice
smells like the crackle of a fire sprite
smells like the sun straddling venus
smells like the breast pocket of a poet
smells like the breast meat of Ra
smells like gas-refracted rainbows
smells like harriet tubman's neck
smells like the rolling tide of a fever
smells like a wildebeest out of water
smells like a church ice cream social
smells like wanting heroin

ii.
i can remember the smell
of fall, the faint emptiness
in the breath of the air

but i wouldn't blame the dead
you know?

they're not messed up in this mess
they don't turn different colors

sure, it's hard to know where you're going
without leaning on the dying

but lean on a tree
and let the leaves fall in your hair

iii.
would you always blame the dead?
i can think of a time or two
where that's not such a bad idea

like blame them
for our obvious money problems
or for the many mysterious
holes in our wall

but would we always?
it's just been working
too damn well

like that time during sex
when you lost it, baby, i'm sure
the dead stole it from you

but what the dead take
you can always get back you know