Words bruise worse
than sticks or stones
when lobbed, as if to curse.
Even folded into meter
or laid out plain in verse,
a turn of phrase,
more than a look,
can kill.
Can gallop off the page,
can pounce right off the tongue,
and pierce the soul with
unveiled ill will.
The heart of hearts
outs itself in words.
We need to get our imaginary lives lived somehow.
Maybe that’s the use of story:
Start at the end,
or make a U-turn at the final bend.
Plot the scenes without interruption.
Cast a villain, or at least a foil,
and have your comebacks ready.
Number your days,
and decide how long a minute will be.
You’re in no hurry.
At will, pursue diversion–
This is real life, the edited version.
Why do I scorn your gifts
when they’re exactly what I’ve asked for?
Do I want to be surprised
by your punishment instead?
Fault found in each offering,
back turned to each ministration.
You’ve read my mind,
but I’m still not satisfied.
The poisoned wind was at our backs
as we stumbled into the headwind,
nothing to do but press forward,
only forward, when we could.
Numb to our pathetic state
Aware of it, but uncaring–
there was survival at stake.
There were destinations
we lacked the wherewithal to reach
but must, somehow.
The Promised Land
doesn’t figure into this plan.
You are the door
the window
How freeing to know
there’s a way out;
there’s a refuge
that is not an escape
but a change of course.
Go west until you can’t anymore,
then look for the door.
