In my opinion
Great men have always stood on the shoulders of giants
Since the beginning of time
It is my belief that
The dictionary defines the term as
It was a dark and stormy night
Everybody understands that
Sometimes things are the way they are because
There are three things to remember here
Coming from an underprivileged background
In this essay, I will prove
All of these people were wrong

In conclusion
Cartago delenda est
And they all lived happily ever after
And there will need to be nothing else said about the topic

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Flipping through the book again–
I’ve read it before
So many times before–
Deepening the stain on the fore edge
Widening the aging stripe that shows where
My thumb has peeled the leaves back
Searching for something seen once and dimly remembered
So that I can correct the citation

I know I saw it
Somewhere
One phrase on which I can hang the whole thing
I know it’s in there
I just have to find it

Maybe
If I turn just one more page

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Legs pumping again
Feet flapping down flatly to the pavement
Radiating back the heat it took in
Under the staring sun

Someday the race will end
But it is not now
Though pushing forward jiggling pillars
Exhausts

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Many ask
What’s the point
Why bury meaning between the lines
And cover it with soil and shit
When simply saying what you mean
Is so much better
Faster
Easier
And it’s not like anyone gives a damn
Anyway

So much may be true
Of course
It does seem that people don’t much care
Turn away from what might make them work a little
Because they work hard all day
Anyway
And it’s nice not to have to work so hard
At every damned thing

But
And there is a but
There’s always a but
What is on the surface washes away
While the ore and oil and other things
Devoutly desired and deemed fit for use
Must be dug out from deep within
And the faces of mountains weather away in time
With only the strongest stone standing to face the staring sun

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Someone’s pants are growing tight
Even though they’re eating right
And exercising every night

It’s not because they eat too much
Nor that they need a surgeon’s touch
Nor from a chair’s comfortable clutch

Their hatband binds in just that way
Their pants constrain more every day
The swelling, see, does not delay

What, then, can cause this kind of thing
Of which no few singers sing
And which too many seek to bring
Upon themselves?

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Sprawled out on the couch
Belt undone and pants unbuttoned in
Summer sunlight sneaking in between the curtains
Where the cat had moved them sticking its head out to look at
Birds hopping across the rocks until they grew too hot
And flittering into the browning branches
One hand fallen on the heart
Breathing in and out in quiet peace

There is a peace in a quiet time
After the tacos have been eaten and
Cups of coffee drunk
Washing away the cares of the world for a while
Baptism performed by no clergy
But ministry of self to self
Following no order of worship but
Soothing the soul no less for that

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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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