woke up,
stitched up;
something growing
deep within
inside /
outside
what strange hell
is this?
what's this box i
built within my brain:
old ideas keeping
out the light
i read a story,
made a movie --
all within my mind,
but something grew out
that i couldn't comprehend
It's a beautiful day
in the graveyard.
Blue skies.
Cool, but not cold.
The ideal temperature
to be an overdressed military man.
Do ghosts amble among the stones
on days like these?
I imagine most of these men died
on quite different kinds of days:
Rainy, cold, muddy days.
Muggy, buggy, malarial days.
The kind of day that just won't end,
but to fold into a sleepless night.
How many died,
not from spall or Minié balls,
but because they just didn't have the will
to drag themselves through another day?
from exhaustion?
from demoralization?
How many died under beautiful blue skies
on an idyllic autumn day?
I don't know whether
there're good days to die,
and even less whether
there're good days to be dead.
Our plight is craving perfection
in an imperfect world:
imperfectly perceived,
imperfectly performed,
imperfectly programmed.
To have a mind that can imagine perfection,
but never attain it
creates a special hell vehicle.
so much power
in a lazy rolling wave
as it tips into a tube.
a column of
weighty water
piledrives:
pressing one down &
holding one in a
back-shaped divot
on the sandy bottom,
a forced pour
onto face and chest,
flowing & rolling
over both sides with
such easy skill
as to negate a
frantic, thrashing
attempt to roll free.
frozen silence.
but for the rustle of breeze
against dry grass.
snow will come,
and a crust of snow
will settle in crystalline
interlock with the brown stalks.
the snow will absorb sound,
muffling reality,
until nothing remains but
frozen silence.
a solid, black silhouette sinks submerge! submerge! it struggles to plunge & not be kicked back up -- to not bob like a wine cork in the dark sea but it seems to have no mass to sink but the right mass to fly
Breaching the surface,
one's neck craning, stretching,
one's lips in a wide "O,"
one gasps,
sucking air with a monster moan,
or maybe it's dying-man death-rattle.
The gasped breath
is insufficient,
and the body shoves
it back out,
craving more &
impulsively air packing.
As one bobs in the water,
one times another gasp
to the rebounding breach.
This one is more satisfying,
more calming:
the perfect breath --
for all intents & purposes.
There may be a time
when each breath is as precious
as this one.
The Nobodaddy rolls
like a sunglassed Santa Claus.
He watches things crash
with bemused satisfaction --
like a buzzed NASCAR fan.
And people cry out to him,
and he gives a spiritless wave
of vague acknowledgement --
like a celebrity tired of celebrity.
But the victims all die,
and Nobodaddy calls it a day,
a day of seeing life & death play out -
not in any grand design -
but puttering about as the living
bow to life,
and the dead play out a demise.
When I was a child,
for a time,
the bridge was out.
They were replacing the rusty
iron trestle bridge
with a thick-slab concrete
monstrosity.
I could go down to the river,
and I could see the
scarred and marred
construction site,
& the big yellow machines
that sat dormant on the weekends.
But one couldn't cross the river --
not unless one was willing to get wet,
and was a better swimmer than I
(and it was autumn & the water cold.)
It was a strong current that swept
along between two steep banks.
It was not a great distance,
nor were they violent waters.
But that brown water moved with
such smooth swiftness.
I dream about the time the bridge was out,
now & again,
and wonder what it was
about those weeks
that still has meaning to my mind.
A construction worker once told me -
for a building to last -
depends not so much on
its materials,
nor even on its foundations,
but rather on the building being
in balanced strain throughout.
A building stays up when its
parts press into each other firmly,
or pull at each other strongly,
but never too out of balance.
This web of unseen forces
allows the building stand solid
against any huffing, or puffing,
the world might throw its way.
A democratic society works the same.
It must have an establishment.
It must have a counterculture.
And these two elements must
constantly pull at each other
or mash into each other:
tension & compression,
compression & tension,
tug-of-war & sumo.
If one side is unopposed, or too weak,
the state will crumble into some kind of
authoritarianism by another name.
Destroy your enemies at your own peril.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 