Saturday, May 14, 2005

Habituated in the Blood

The motion of parenthetical opposites,
steady-state, all things similar, all parties
subscribing to the drinking of particular
colors of Kool-Aid, small tents catering
to vast audiences, standing varying distances
away, straining to hear the music, straining
to understand the course of the rhetoric,
or is it sophistry, really, only bending of
events and dog-eared truths like kicks
from the far corners as the soccer match
winds down, hoping to get by the goal
keeper, to celebrate an afternoon of running
by running further, hands upraised in the
small and temporary victory?

We bend like reeds at the riverside, winds of
opinion ten times their strength as they press
us in the direction of good appearance, of money,
of any small advantage for the coming struggle,
and there are always struggles, nothing is ever done,
for we are at the mercy of the dumb and fickle
hoard, and we must use what arts lie within our
grasp to pacify them, whether it be the smooth
and gentle lie or the angry shock of danger and
fear, for stupid beasts must be treated in ways
equal to their intellect—a clear-told truth will
doom our sort, for lies, like drugs bought and
sold upon the sordid evening corners, are things
habituated in the blood, corrected for in how
we walk and how we look upon the face of
the dawning day, and cannot be revoked in
one quick movement.

Some fools say there are techniques of regression,
that the damage can be rendered healthy again,
that the dimness will be dispelled by the light of
understanding once more, but how true can these
sad and forlorn hopes really be, when there is
no weaning down, no comforting twelve steps
to walk, but only the vortex of ever increasing
delusion, and all the allegorical tales have come
true without laughter or recognition, only darker
headlines in the dawning of the cheap day’s
return?

No, put those hastily painted pickets away and
let them gather their due dust, for we have pushed
the raw illness into the vein too long and treated
too many promises to the bum’s rush as money
painted the year and we made up our contradictory
rules to this big-children game, and it has now
won—not any of us who pushed the bar as
rocking horse winners grinned and collected their
ticket, but the game itself, skipping the fire breaks
and burning Eden behind us as we were busy at
the paper shredder.

4 comments:

Bill said...

I don't know how you manage to crank these out every day... each different yet so complete with imagery.. at least for me.

I saw, in here, the 'group think' mentality laid raw for all to see.

I find it interesting that some of the folks who struggle to be the most individualistic, end up conforming to someone else's idea of 'unique'..

Anonymous said...

I, too, love to read what you write. You have dealt with the "group think" as Bill calls it, in a direct and powerful manner, making us all wonder where we fit in the pattern. It raises the question: "Can any of us really be individuals, or do we, indeed, end up being conformists?

Firehawk said...

Bill,

I've been on a roll with the poetry lately. I can sometimes go a year without having any desire or ability to write the stuff, but when I get rolling, sometimes I write three or four in a day. I'm glad that you're not seeing a decrease in quality, though.

In terms of being your own person, I think that, if you're trying too hard to do it, you might be going about it the wrong way. Being yourself should require little planning or effort on your part. It should come naturally.

Anonymous,

Glad to hear from you, and I appreciate your comments and compliments. Come back anytime!

Bill said...

I've actually got a piece in progress about exactly that... trying too hard to be individualistic... With any luck I'll get it done soon.

I sure understand writing 'cycles', I rarely write poetry unless I'm at an extreme peak, or valley emotionally.

No decrease in quality at all!

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