Daily Archives: November 12, 2011

A Dream Song

1.
Re-reading
my previous night’s
scribblings, 
sinking again
into their deranged language,
their protest against
language’s power to
derange.

I’m calmer this morning
and the sky
has unsteeled
its war-grade gray.

I remember some trivial things
that I’d intended to say,
and jot down the raw specifics  
though I don’t yet know where they go
or if they go at all. 

2.
Insisting on coherence

is the white man’s way
of dismissing 
thousands of years
of deep brown knowledge.

I know, I know.

What I really meant to say was,
“don’t look for fair and balanced here.”

What I really meant to say was,

some things you know,
some things you know better.

Some things you know so well
you can tell right away 
who will understand them
if you speak of them.

3.
I know now
where yesterday’s trivial things belong,
and they are not trivial at all,
they’re of course the whole point
of yesterday’s scribblings.

The problem,
the eternal Problem
with these sorts of things,
is that there’s no one place
they fit best.  I don’t think
I even need to write them out.

In fact,
they might be better implied
or glimpsed in the cracks,
inferred from where they’ve been 
interred.

4.
As for the inflammatory
above:

my thumb’s sore,
but I stick it out anyway
to find passage
to wherever I’m going,

as I don’t trust
that my current ride
will get me there.

 


Hagiography

St. Teflon, patron saint
of bullet dodgers.

St. Tango,
source of comfort against
blind divergent storms.

St. Bullwhip,
defender against the wealthy.

St. Lifter, overseer
of the doomed in any case.

St. Angelcake, who strokes
the heads of the raped. St. Watchfob,
who picks fruit and cleans the poisons
from the flesh.  St. Linger,
warrior with no hard weapons.
St. Rollie Of The Bones,
bringer of square deals and luck.

Call up the old saints.
You’ll find them retired and
disinclined to help.  “Not our world,”
they say.  “Not our gospel.  You need

The Blessed Version, The Sherman
On The Mount, The Irascible
Conception, a new Bible written
by scribes drunk on the manic milk
of modern circumstance.  You need

St. Rattler of the found quarter,
St. Lobster of the century reboot,
St. Jack of the feast day
of unicorn meat.
Call that the long shot gospel
and hang on. They’ll make a saint
for you,
someday,
and maybe it’ll even be in time.”