If I wrote of diamonds or oil, would it be valuable?
If I wrote of money, trinkets, and feathers, would it be novel?
If I wrote of big skies, roaring clouds, and fierce horses, would it be of value?
Would it stir something in your heart,
more valuable than gold?
In the rustic attitudes of my history books
There is a party of fun flowers and light
masterfully played against the linen and the shack
The Impressionists and the dirt of the American South
are totally disconnected except
on my bookshelf.
The Bible sits next to Deepak Chopra
and titles like "Human Destiny"
are next to a book from the 1990s about Feng Shui.
Let's not forget all the photography books from my uncle
and one book in plastic called "Lyrics for Song Hits"
which is from the 40s approximately
and is hard backed
and the ideas of those songs being hits
is what makes it a gem.
Perhaps I will open it, and write one.
Mark this day on your calendar with a red pen
full of love and solace
It wasn't exactly smoke from the peace pipe
But we stood here on horses together
Watching the prairie
and there was no rain
The Earth began to spin as if it had stopped then started
and engine in the rare earth minerals the field rocks after frost
Caterpillars crunched themselves forward
the stems of leaves bastions
to the future
I crave simplicity
I seek to nullify the complications
To desalinate
To pick the seeds from the hay
and the pearls from the water
I crave a good cup of tea
Chamomile and honey
I will wash the floor with vinegar
after the ravens fly.
I will spot the cardinals
in the pine trees
the hare in the snow
I will look under the hood of the old Chevy
I will chop wood.
No more panic
No more awful obliterations of the truth
No more rewiring of the neurons
No more chimney soot
painted on our foreheads on Ash Wednesday
because we missed supper on Tuesday
and forgot the trash on Monday
No more apple cores
hurled out the windows of passing cars
No more wars
I saw a door and it was a two-sided coin.
It was welcoming and curious, allowing entry.
Yet at the same time it was a
a shield as it was a barrier.
The bones are really breaking inside of me
and I have no one left to conceive of
no imagination to dry up
no silence to feign
I have no foreign war to derive pleasure from
no shame bought and sold in miles
no fame crumpled and torn like sheets
no clothes fractured and torn
no sheep counted as I fall asleep unborn
no ribbons to tie my hair
no masters to serve
Image source: https://histclo.com/style/head/hair/bowh/chron/hb-chron.html
In the midst of the rubble we must pick up our chins
win sideways or not at all
find the beauty in the butterfly wing
soar on the ocean with the wind whipping
cry in silent tears
as the bombs pound the shores
Fake views brought us this lake of fire
oil tankers, floating Titanics
destined for the depths
but it's humanity
that is really taking
the plunge
We were hoping it would be here by now
but ma'am you will have to wait,
your gratification has been....
delayed.
We are terribly sorry.
Normally the gratification is right on time.
We are dreadfully sorry.
Would you like a cold glass of water while you wait?
Perhaps we could entertain you,
juggling oranges or telling jokes?
There is really no excuse for this
and we think there may have been a thunderstorm
a bomb threat
or an arrow which was aimed at an apple
missed.
We are not sure when gratification will
arrive
in the meantime
may we suggest you read a book
from our library
and sit here by the window.
Gratification will be with you shortly.
May I hang your coat in the
meantime?
Passages from broken poems
pathways back to my home
my bending backbone beckons
pigeons peck the corn filled ground
the graffiti and the engines
of the rushing buses
the frozen man with a cigar
his shadow on the black tar
smoke bellows up
while strobe lights flash
and coffee cups clank
at the Jumping Bean
