Friday, June 21, 2013

Tomorrow for the second step

I’m thinking time
for the next book,
fiction or otherwise,
bio- or auto-,

titled maybe
“Misdiagnosed, self-medicated, freely
associated and so on
and so forth”

sub-titled maybe
“A memoir of traps
in place and in time”
authored by Longing to Get Out

ghostwritten maybe
by Anything for a Buck
and published maybe
by Slow to Print Books & Son

thinking maybe that if the title
and sub-title and author’s name
and ghostwriter’s credit are
long enough and clear enough

the book itself can go short.
Page one would begin
because that is what page one does,
page two would begin

with a cliché
about journeys of self-discovery
and segue into
a discussion of agoraphobia

depression and related maladies
and my favorite vegetable
treatment, a topical ointment

to get the hero out the door
where what happens next
will not be therapeutic,
but colorful maybe

 and as the train of thought
rumbles on thinking
I’ll post this on Facebook maybe
and the train suddenly derails

with a roaring and a squealing
the hero somehow avoiding injury,
dragging himself home,
suffering a few cuts,

making somehow out of all of this
a silk potholder, if not a purse,
embroidering as finishing touch
“Tomorrow for the second step!”

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

If not us...

What if geography overwhelmed
history? Left us with no story
to tell? It would begin
and begin and begin.

The end, if it came,
would be a long time coming
and look like we’d seen it all before.
We wouldn’t decisively know

what we’d seen and the words
for regret would sound little
and late, if we heard them at all.
When the glaciers came,

they’d press down hard,
grinding and gravelling
our stillborn lives and,
if we could see ourselves,

we’d be so much unambitious
dust. It would begin
and begin and begin,
and when the wind picked up

the dust, it would whisper
late summer’s turn to fall,
snow yet to come,
to bury all our undreamed dreams

in mounds where our endless
undanced dances
would begin and begin
and begin

a fruitless drift,
never to arrive at the foot
of the tower,
with the faint image

of god unremarked,
and nothing but ghosts passing by
in a place no one could name.

Never to get to where
history remembers who we are,
where hope is a gift
we must work harder to give.