To hell with history and the sense of history. The law is
telling. The law understands that you are going to hurt yourself as badly as
you possibly can. The law knows that you will punch your neighbor in the face
after you sleep with his wife. The law knows you will get your act together
only after your worst loss. The law doesn’t care what that loss is. And it’s
not the law of Moses, or the law of Charlemagne, or even the law of Lincoln,
Nebraska. It’s only the law of the moon…the law of the tide. Its window is what
you call your window, when you can’t sleep and you remember those few moments
in your life when you could have made a great decision, could have beaten that
addiction, could have been a better demon.
Tuesday, September 04, 2018
The Poem After The Poem
So what do I do
after
a poem like that,
when
I feel so satisfied
I
could jump?
What
do I say
and
what dreams
do
I go back to?
Those
are the kinds of days
I
want to have.
Those
are the kinds of feelings
on
the ceiling.
Those
shudders date back
to
some dark month
when
I knew the world
and
the world knew me.
When
things could be discovered,
and
the atom was still
an
amazement to me.
Why
so jaded in the sun?
Why
so lost in the script,
looking
for my next character,
her
next line?
Why
make the structure
of
the question
the
answer?
Why
make mystery
into
myth,
doing
my thinking
on
the page
in
runic séance?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)