Moment of Crisis

What would it take —
tripping, laughing,
falling out of clothes
into bed or even to the floor —
smashing your head
on the hardwood, then
recovering enough
to get your ass up and
truly rest wherever
you end up — alone
or accompanied, naked
again, wordless again,
listening to the birds outside
though you can’t name a one —
what would it take for you
to give up your
pleasure of the moment,
to aim for the heart, aim
for the filthy politics;
what would it take for you
to remove a chunk of soil
from your innermost part
and fling it at the monkeys —
what will you offer them
in place of all the things
that granted you purity, that
got you into bed feeling clean
and serene, that sent you
to bed in the first place
without caring that without you
there might be an offer of nothing
to the Machine and
the moment of crisis?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T