No mystery & A triumph can
[ poetry - august 04 ]
Inheritance is not God, either. That terrain is fickle,
nearly mean. It is life saved by accident.
Wake up to the heat, make fists. You've been sitting
across from a dream. A blind man, never cured, by a blow to the head.
The sham, the wise man, employing thieves. Wise thoughts do not mean
wise deeds. You overheard a word. What you smell is a human.
How much difference between disciples, outsiders? Tongue, tongue,
what mind have you become?
When you go, you go -
free of crown and creed and thorn. Free of death and story.
The ground its own souvenir. I am not a human being (but I was
a human being). There is no mystery here.
A triumph can
The city is insistent - layers of highway and footslog
Please select from our convenient menu of synthetic models.
Be modern. Bustle and cover your plastic with plastic.
Work a way out, the way the invaders worked it in:
Silent underground. Real heroes don't scrub their scripture.
Make a freefall, not a garden, not a perfect composition
She landed upright, a rousing read-aloud. From a traffic jam
to a road and a Thunderbird. Catch the land and trust
she is a muscle into her own terms.
There is responsibility in everyday transactions. There is beauty
in practicing mountain and keeping gods.
A triumph can and a triumph tastes good.