The veiled one replied,
And who wouldn’t be proud of me?
An atmosphere of polka dots of
Light bent on gravitational waves
Within a vast ineffable folded space
Some degrees north of an asteroid
Belt held her nebulae in place
Beneath a sulfuric acid sky.
There is no weave, no hue devised
What can hide divine form from the mind.
Even the deepest blackest masses
Yield their truth with backstage passes
All in their own due time.
It’s just a little ways
I said to make the 6:58.
Stopped once along the way by
Stutter steps and heavy breath
With diesel passing on the left.
Three chums into the boxy whale
Before I scarce could catch its tail
And mouth agape it kindly waits
To catch me in the baleen seats
Along its windowed flanks
Only to spit me out about
Twenty-some odd times a week.
Been awake awhile now
While most are still asleep.
I could regret about everything
But I haven’t got the time.
I’m not the strongest link
The weakest or the richest soil
To grow a crop of human
If you hold on to your pride,
My name is gratitude,
I will remember you.
You oh my beloved are the unredeemable sickest sadistic and twisted worst thing ever.
You are the holocaust and the survivor at one such time or another.
You are the ancient all mother, the eternal concept of the father.
You are the simple sisters, the brotherhood of ever, the comic tricksters.
Not always on the same side as the good guys, but most days while
our history is maddening just managing a smile without the customary grime is amaze.
A lot more than crime exists, for us to say it doesn’t pay or is useless,
it does pay, look at Wall St., New York Style puff piece buzzing in the postmodern way,
politics a noose for inconvenient truth, a trap set for the muddled youth
let loose over rumbling volcanic vents voluntarily vomiting out violence
shaking the momentary myopic myelin sheath of parallel peace
Haves and the Have-Nots have got to stand up with spine and thrust
against the spears of the nail salon clade before they can upgrade
the hypergamous tirades, the privilege and safe space hay rides, for slaves
without soul, without face, without mind or what to say when they come for it.
The nations are mere states of matter we make up of late
individual lives that strive to revive what once was of value
speak up, speak out, speak on what you know — listen though
to everyone you can’t stand: the blogs, the critics, your fellow man
rock beats the bleep out of paper for sure but word covers the earth
the fissures in the fractal foundation of our towering irony
with our books, stacked up thoughts and filmy frames go unseen
the losses and the greater gains made as a species
we carve names in stone and grind bones in a coke stove
stoked and broke and laid open to raise the roiling smoke
and the molten gold in our hearts flows into the holes
kintsugi kin broken again and again made whole.