the fall
from a rose petal
to brown soil
is long
if you’re small
but if you carry
no weight
you walk away
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Daily Archives: August 11, 2010
Ladybug Sutra
Between The Lines
Jimi Hendrix
had huge hands,
his vast natural reach
explaining his gift.
Andres Segovia, though,
was a genius.
Michael Jordan,
some kind of freak, some animal
bent from birth for basketball, was laden
with natural talent.
Larry Bird, though,
was a genius.
They say that Robert Johnson
was a bad player, disappeared
for a while, came back
astonishing. They said back then
he must have sold
his soul to a devil
who gave him his music.
They still say that.
They said the same thing
about Nicolo Paganini, in his day.
No one ever says that now.
But they do say that someone
built the Great Pyramid
for the Egyptians.
Someone
from Sirius gave the calendar
to the Aztecs.
Someone
in a flying saucer
drew the Nazca lines for the ignorant Indians
down in poor old Peru.
Stonehenge, though,
that ring of stone
to mark the passage of the year —
now, that was a work of pure genius,
with the emphasis usually
placed most definitely
on
“pure.”
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Chupasasquatch
Meet the New Colossus.
It’s coming to suck your marrow,
kill your livelihood,
wreck something you built,
and probably wants your women too;
builds its nests in woods
and swamps and hollows
where you were planning to build
a condo development;
shows up in your headlights
when you’re trying to get somewhere
and leaves its thick hair all over the place.
According to legend
it has either been here since before
the first white settlers,
is a recent entrant
from across the border,
or was dropped from on high
like a curse from aliens;
the only thing you know for sure
is that you’re terrified
and you need a name for what scares you
so you’ll watch some television show
and some authoritative voice
will offer you an explanation
so you’ll seize on that
until a scarier one comes along.
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The Case For War
I was always told,
“Pick your battles,”
but that was one piece of advice
I was not able
to follow. No,
my battle picked me
when I was young
and tattooed a new name,
“Casus Belli,”
on my sword shoulder.
Threw its own
meaty slug of an arm
over me, pointed me
at a corner, said,
“Stand there.
Let them come to you,
don’t be more afraid
than them, and turn loose
everything I’ve taught you,
every time.”
Now, after all these years,
I’m a pretty hyena laughing
as I gnaw you down. I’m ready
to admit the transitory fun
I have…but know I didn’t
choose this role,
I’ve just made the most
of a bad moment
that never
seems to end.
Let me promise you
that I’m truly ashamed
of how good it feels
to let the sharp edge
swing. In all my dreams I see
a vulture singing
for me, a carrion fly
in my ear…and I know
what meal they’re waiting
to enjoy, so know I am no happy-go-lucky
warrior. I just can’t escape
my first kill, who
has never left me.
He wants your arm
for his arm. He wants
to see me fall
the way he fell, and pushes
on my back every time
I see the apparently easy mark
of my next attack.
When I come for you,
remember this. Release me from it
if you can. I long for it,
or rather he does, and somewhere
the first battle that picked me
is sleeping soundly,
secure in the wisdom
of what happens when
that name is given to a scared young man
and he is handed a weapon
he will soon learn to love
more than he could ever
love himself. I doubt he stirs
much in his sleep. I bet
he couldn’t tell me my real name.
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Tags: poems, poetry, meditations
Dark Matter 