Any process
once begun
urges its own
completion,
which is why we
are as far gone
as we are;
we’ve stood on all peaks,
braved all fires
and all manner of storms,
sailed into the moon
from the edge of the ocean,
addicted to going hard
and going far
in all we do; and so
we spiral
toward ashes below
still singing our own praises,
indifferent to how far
and how hard
we are falling.
elevated language don’t cut it:
your music’s too baroque,
the bog of it is too much
swamp to cross; quit
sending me
the long way around
just to fetch eggs.
elevated language don’t cut it:
why do you keep explaining
how things spin? just say
youv’e got yourself stuck
on a bone-strewn plain
and be done. any horror
will take care of itself.
elevated language don’t cut it:
not when the cadence of women
murmuring about justice
while at work is perfect,
not while the creative frenzy-cursing
of the just-injured is perfect,
not while the rhythm
of checkout line chatter
is staccato and glory-filled and
perfect.
elevated language don’t cut it
when such plain spoken melodies
can already conjure this everyday earth
so damn well.
Dark Matter 