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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Why should I not delight to live
In these fair lands where Aestas has long residence
Working her artistry day after day?
It is not to the artist’s blame that
The audience shrivels and withers before the intensity of her performance
Snails or slugs bestrewn with salt cast from where she prompts sweat

Though descended from hardy men
I am not a hardy man
Have not the stamina that I once did
And even that was not so much
But that fault is mine if fault it is
And problem mine if it is no fault
Though I confess to seeking faults and wallowing in them

Even so feeble and fast-falling as I am
I take some small joy in seeing the dance she does
Dwelling here so long as she does
Kindly and in force here as in few other places
Even if it is not for me that she will dance
Or not only for me
And others gyrate more fully and freely than I have ever done
At her mere approach and in her long duration
Taking their time as she with them until she
Satisfied that she has done enough
Moves on
Only to come back again
As those who sit before this stage of hers
Bound by brush among gnarling woods upthrusting
Know will happen
And mostly when–
Though she visits at odd times between

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Oh, I am not immune to that demand
That Stupid God has called across the land,
From stony shore to balmy beach of sand,
From water’s side to high and snow-clad peak!
I often find myself compelled to seek
Some idle pastime through which that god wreaks
The ruin of the mind. I make me numb,
An infantile sucking on the thumb
Or sitting thereupon to depths self-plumb.
Yet while too many find their joy in such,
I linger in that hateful fear: too much
Of any joy will blunt the future touch
Of better happiness that can be found–
At least as much of it as is around.

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