Think about the shadow of work
All our lives we were there
Just as in love
We were under someone’s shadow
Long dark scroll of hair
On the nape of a neck
When we visited the ocean we stared at it
From long rows of metal chairs
We were an army of the paralyzed
It was okay to be obliterated by wincing blue light
Is the hawk passive as it flies
Looking for blood to become hunger
Our dreams wonder to themselves
While we are asleep and paralyzed
In between asking themselves
If we are the real ones
If we are the real thieves
Life says be a sport about it.
It says this while revealing no rules
that might give the play some boundaries,
some sense of a definitive score.
People claim to be winners, but who knows.
Certainly, there’s no convincing umpire
or referee on the field. Not even the divine ones
with those shrill whistles hung around
their oversized necks. Their rules are crazy
and only there to soothe them. Life says be a sport,
and then does crazy things that no way make sense.
You start to realize the game is really much more
like art than anything else. You make it up
as you go along and just try to convince others
it’s a believable form. If you hang yours on a wall,
will people nod “Uh huh.”
Could it be that life and death
are just resemblances of the real?
Often, I do not feel myself
but a sketch of something happening elsewhere.
You want to be a bringer
You want to bring something
You want to bring it to the people
No, you change your solemn mind
You want to bring it to the animals
This is a wise, a tactical swerve
Nothing may be brought to the brightness of people
That is the miracle of death
You can bring things to the animal
And you can bring things to the animal inside the people
They can eat and absorb things
If they are interested, they will chew
But the person itself
It is an impermeable membrane
It’s a different kind of will
It’s like a mouth of rust eating and talking at the same time
The pebbles that lie on all the beaches of the earth
That infinite variety!
The colors of them!
I don’t know
But I feel it
in my gut
They can’t stand the emptiness
They can’t board the emptiness
I can’t figure it out, they say
I can’t get on this train of emptiness
So they blind themselves to it
Though they feel it moving swiftly past them
Every day of their lives
The words happen,
predestined to be years.
Sometimes they fur like moss.
Sometimes they drain our blood.
Sometimes they fall as hammers
on the house’s roof itself
The words happen,
and we want to think they have ears.
They listen to us, they learn
to mimic us.
Strange, bloodthirsty little pets
we can surely tame.
And here we are moving on,
and where will they go,
our little loved ones,
we must turn out of doors,
return to all wildness
from whence they came
to play house a while.
And still we smile to remember
how they crossed our threshold,
fleet of wild foot
and their friendly little fangs.