Quo Vadimus

Postmodernism,
Otherwise known as…

More Modernism,
A Fragment of an Echo,
or
The Twice-Forgotten,
Post-Enlightenment Bad Mood
of Believers in a Deist Fate,
no…

Forget that much, forget
the walks, the blood pumping in your veins
with the shadowy night surround you;
forget the broken glass of college towns,
and the concrete displays it,
the grass hides it and
divides it,

Forget that much of this was once noble,
in its kind, and some is
today,
again,
and some merely drifting into a now-empty niche.

But… forget-me-nots,
and fountains will not play
upon the Mount,
it becomes harder, more workaday habit
to escape to that Olympus;

O Quo Vadimus?
O Where Are We Going?
Where has the question gone,
and what is this devil posing
in its place?

Goldfish

The magic and lithe light,
the chords of yellow,
dots of small light,
and bright light-catchers;
All of it consumed,
digested, made new,
made whole within me,
gave me goldfish fins,
appreciation of beauty;
Whose tears will fall,
evaporate, clean the world,
make it salty,
make it hurry to its death,
or to the well of the petty,
or to wondrous swimming souls.

Clicking tongues
and angry tongues
have before called me
an amazing boy,
an arrogant boy,
a prim and proper
distant goldfish,
breathing from the bubbles
in the deep dark heart
of a fish bowl’s water.
But I say there is a great machine
somewhere inside the center
which even I do not know,
that the angels hide in,
and bide their time in,
and resemble golden fish.

Handshakes and Cradles

Sweet babe in the imagined future world:

The cradle is your grave,
later, the handshake your slave.

You put upon the friends you
represent, pull apart the pill,
in bathwater, smoking still,
around the feather bed, around
the graves.

The handshake hands wash and
glide away, like a bird of somber
prey, pray your hands today
cradle may the grave be, your
handshakes stay slaves.

Represent your honor, knave;
pull apart the pill to the smoky,
undeniable scent, put upon yourself for
another day, another daughter,
another heart in handshake travelled…

…through the feathers, through the
handshakes, through the smoky,
sleeping, dreaming glade…

…your cradle,
slave.

Birchbark

Just how does time begin with song,
it’s speck expanding everlong?
And parser passes without weaping,
God the Sower wheel and leaping.

Assets are for loving’s grace,
and God with ever-simple face
shines in part on willow desk
for boards of birchbark in my chest,

Stacking, wrapping paper still,
then to climb the towering hill
to speak with man on top of it;
we enlightenment + get,

Rounding bend and corner gave
to live with me and further have
a friend, a magic spark of light
then alone to wayward night,

Where dark towers wheel and wing and whisper.