Treading water
It is raining far upstream,
raining water from the ocean
delivered by this river and its delta,
gathered by its basin.
Petals spangle the water,
twinkling in the current.
At this short stretch where the river is smooth
I gaze into it and see my face.
I am the paintree,
I grow, I bloom, I am alive.
We’re like foie gras geese,
force-fed information
except we control the hose.
We can walk away.
I did it. Cut the cord and walked.
I unwound the threads that held me
and followed them out of the labyrinth,
through the door the spider held for me.
Outside. I re-wild. I walk into misty hills.
I watch the sun set for the first time in ages
and hold faith
that it will rise again.
A troop of chimpanzees drives out
one of their own who wouldn’t share fish.
Children play in the forest
while their parents worry.
Underground, roots and mycelia
reject intruders, kill parasites.
Thunder rattles me
even though it’s far away.
If we focus our lenses we can bring back
empathy feigned to avoid shame.
If I can stand up and relax enough I can be
transmuted into a calm person.
Visualize utopia and hold it steadily – we are
who we pretend to be.
If you would shake
the 14th pillar
until the walls fall
on all our heads
if you would make us
subjects of your fancy
rather than citizens
and equals
know that you rend your own flesh
you cut your own hair
and that if scattered
bees will produce honey in any field.
I have carried a load far past my ability
year upon year
stack upon bundle
my strength grows, but never quite enough.
The weight of events and knowledge was always
meant to be more than one person could handle,
a cross too heavy to carry,
I stumble, I slowly suffocate.
Each alone with the burden of all sin
we will face the lawless legions and be crushed,
high for all to see
and galvanize their cynicism.
My scruples hobble me
I fall again
and have a vision
of this cross of thought
as mikoshi
or ark of promises, that we
as fellow believers
know will protect us.
We share the burden
and make it festival,
splashing through the river
and taking turns carrying the god.
Laughs reflect fear to the legions.
We lean on each other when the weight is too much.
Like an addict, with immense effort,
I extract myself from family’s chaos.
I build a temple of calm and hope
its gravity will, at length, rescue me.
Or I escape my stifling home,
tuck and roll through broken glass
toward freedom. The city lights shine
for me like burnished youth.
Or, broken on the wheel of the world,
I retreat to easy familiarity.
There are rules and old fights
but they are worn down like old church steps.
Or I want all these things and more.
The only story without complication
is an obituary. I break and mend,
am distorted and still shine.
I tried once to touch the sun
and broke, my body and mind melting
too close to the source. Another almighty
test that I, like Abraham, failed.
I fell into the labyrinth to convalesce.
My body healed and my mind wandered
those walls, taking every left turn until I found
the hollow at its core. Then, I could see.
To burn brighter needn’t mean half a life.
Turn over, find another wick, and ignite it.
The melting wax may fall
and build up on both ends.
A paradox, you say?
Yes, that’s right.
I prove my humanity
by my contradictions.
I swim in my head, a bowl too small.
I turn and turn, my spine grows curved,
to echo the walls that lead nowhere.
I swim faster to try to hasten
the process and find the way out.
I will speedrun discomfort.
The space constricts to compensate.
I despair. How can I help anyone,
how can I save anyone else
if I can’t even save myself?
Bereft of direction, I stall.
Without design, I rest
and wake to the answer:
then I will have to save myself.
The walls in my head begin to bloom.
I will place no wager on a living man
so when it’s time for the money to go down
I pick the no less than the sovereign –
we the people
who did not vote for this
misguided and distracted as we may be
we will course correct with better delegates
who will meet the moment
and remember what we always knew
that the road to prosperity is through a
more perfect union.
the black cats may need to live
under gormless lapdogs
who’ll lick any hand that pets them
the discommendation of our shadows
will yield no pure land
but will yield a living world –
annoying and disappointing
tolerable and real
and premised on building instead of predation
