Meteor, Meteorite

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.

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?