Aestas may well dance her dance
Auxo joining the choreography
And Damia, too,
And all leave panting those in their audience
And sticky wet with salty fluid
But their performances are of gentler kind than
Has taken up residence in the bleached-white hills
Where brown columns crookedly rise and
Their hangings fade

No stola for her who performs now
No diaphanous gown of clinging gossamer
No translucent tulle that lets things show through
Which many eyes long to see
No organza that covers but refuses to conceal
Oh, no
If she is clad in anything
If anything stands between her and the eye
It is cracking leather
The only thing to match the ways in which
She beats upon the brows and bodies of
Those assembled in her august presence
Early though they might well be

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The usual lines are being trotted out
Again
And again
That school is for getting a job
And I know the echoes are coming back
Saying who the customer is
And that the customer is always right

They have it wrong
Of course
Because that model’s a bad one
But you have to meet students where they are
So it might be said
If we’re going to follow the model
That the student’s not the customer
Their prospective employers are
And their teachers are as much quality control
As they are factory tools

It somehow never seems to occur
That the students are materials
Shaped and processed by the processes–
And
Indeed
The doctors who teach and who teach teachers
Draw out
Wire from billets
Billets from ore–
And that sometimes
The raw stuff has to be discarded
And even what has been processed once
Fails when it is made from
Basic stuff into
More complex machinery

A few seem to get the point
And stop their parts in that choir
But others never do
And scream on
Out of tune

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They talk so often of
Not being sheep
Not wanting to blindly follow along
But then themselves
Run to the bell that rings
And eagerly look
To be grabbed by the crook

Possessed as I am of
A curving horn I’d
Gladly oppose to
Some other’s head or butting
I’ve no desire to be shorn

Too often
The cutter comes too close
Taking more than what grows back easily

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The burn bans are back on
Sensibly enough
Red-lettered signs standing at the edge of each precinct
Prayers that some random spark will not become
A conflagration that will consume all it touches

The question I have is
How long will it be until
Somebody thinking himself–
And it’s not every man
But it’s always a man
As the saying goes–
Some kind of pitmaster
Skilled beyond the ken of those who
Do the work day in and out
And know better than to light up their grills
In the dry heat and stiff breezes
Will determine that his right to a well-done steak
Trumps the rights of other not to be cooked

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Screaming into the open air until
My throat is torn and still
Screaming up the bloody hunks
Hoping that having to stop and
Scrape some part of me off of their faces will
Make them pause long enough to look at
The world they are helping make
Tinted red by something not a sunset
And stop in horror at how the hue
Ruins all the views they had thought to have

They do not listen
Of course
And why should they when
They bathe so gladly
Drink so deeply
Of the wine of which I am a fountain
But one more small faucet pouring out upon them
And stay drunk on the spirits they ingest
?

When the time comes that
They must sober up
And they see what covers them
And the long line of those who
Wounded
Have yielded it
Who will then have the axe in hand
And swing it one more time?

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I had been hoping to hear Wilson, Ballard, and McGlown
Harmonize over sweet horn-work
But I am stuck with lesser writers than they had
Who pen far poorer songs for singers who should
Not so much as audition for the frogs’ parts
Or the crows’

The latter
Of course
Got many auditions
And are amply cast
Richly costumed
And if there are a few who play the ravens’ parts
Thought and memory perching on the shoulders of the mighty
Whispering what is needful to hear
There are more who croak out corpse-breath with glee
Before bending their beaks to feast again

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Last week
It was clear that Notus
Servant of Aeolus and son of Astraeus
Stopped off for a bite to eat along the way

He had the migas plate
I am sure
Possibly the chilaquiles
Definitely several cups of coffee
Maybe another side of refrieds or
Extra el charro
Which he shared with us only later
If in abundance

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There is a thing that sometimes throbs
Deep under the pants-cloth
Running long along the vertical
And often eased in bed

Who finds that affliction must measure steps well
Goes halting forward when called to proceed
Sometimes wincing at the feeling of it

The touch of one well loved kneading
Rump roasted in another oven long before
Rewards with relief the one who relishes it
Chastely but nearly enough to not

The one who seeks for wisdom
Whose insight is surpassing
That one will be able to say what it is

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She sprayed from where her tufts parted
Soaking who stared up at the show
And showering many with her gifts
Openly displayed in the daytime no less than
Shared in the evening and the night

But now she suffers no touch
And those who looked on are left
Hot and humid amid swelling hills
Damp despite the distance from the depths they would seek
And that wetness they desire
Is held above their heads
Taunting and teasing
Doing nobody a damned bit of good

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Melkor amid the Ainur’s music
Striving to drown out all the others
And I am but one voice among the many
Not so loud as might be found
Never so sonorant and rarely a soloist
No soaring tenor nor throbbing bass
And soprano only in distress

There is no Eru to lift up hands and fear-making face
Silencing the cacophony and ending both the Song and its despite
So I can but carry my tune
Even if the bucket is leaky and its handle cracks
While the bleating brays on beating out a tattoo unceasing
In its unimaginative dissonance and guttural refrain

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