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
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.
A Haibun The sound of the hawk’s talons as they click against the cement floor is sharp and crisp. The raptor moves carefully, head duc...
We have been dreaming in unison but those dreams have fallen into disrepair, eaten away by the persistent rust of the many days here...
This ringing silence this house, once filled a place of voices now gone silent, a place that once echoed with the laughter of the...
Note: I taught a poetry class at Fyrecon this afternoon, and we did a few challenge poems during the participation segment of the class. Th...