I far too often heed the siren call
That rings from in the Stupid God’s large hall
And holds more people in its dulling thrall
Than might be thought. I, too, must take my ease
At times. I must seek out a sweet release
From too much thinking, lest I grow diseased–
I know that such awaits me if I don’t,
Foul thought of which I might write, but I won’t.
I wrestle with so doing, seek to hone
Myself instead of letting myself laze,
But still I find that, on too many days,
I heed the call, it fills my mind with haze,
And I plod dully to that dim delight
Of Stupid God’s, who laughs throughout the night.

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In the next room
Strains of some pop star’s licensed product ringing through the house
As they sing along and
Try to follow the images on the screen with their bodies
And I am trying to be grateful that that is what they do together
When there are so many other things and worse that could be

They do so well together
And I sit at my desk
Pecking away at some small thing
Marveling at a friendship that sprang up suddenly
So easily

It is a blessing for the one
That such things happen for her
Time and again
I have never known how

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I will have time to read again
Turning pages at my pleasure and for it instead of
Racing through reams to write tests I know
I
Know
Strip the joy from where I have found it
For others
For me

I will have time to write again
Pick up a pen and fill out pages
Such as I used to do
And not only short bursts of verse or reading reviews
But things I ought to have been writing long since
That others might want someday to read
Or crapped-out copy for a few coins
(Though I appreciate the pay)

I will be able to be a part of things
As I have not before been
Except on occasion
And those the better days of my life
Now past
But perhaps to be reclaimed again
Or claimed since
They have so seldom been

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The bucket is falling again
Thin rope snapping as it speeds through hands that
Will not grasp it soon, fearing burns
The skin having been torn away before and
The flesh left raw and stinging because
Things must still be done even when
What should be protected is bared to the world

The peril lies in letting too much rope play out
The line following too closely and quickly
And passing swiftly thus past where it can be held
Falling into the water instead of helping to
Bring it back up and
Letting people drink

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Kept my mouth shut except to
Make the kind of small talk that is expected
And that greases so many things
Palms of hands that reach out to open doors
And usher those through who apply that oil
Or
Focused on producing papers instead of grading them
Because the comments didn’t get much read
If what came in after is any sign
And it would seem to be
Or
Stayed in school at the one school instead of going to another
Taken advantage of the opportunities I did not know were there
Because I did not pay attention to that kind of thing
Not knowing that I needed to do so
Because who would ever have told me that when
Study hard and get good grades
Was still the rule of the day
Or
Stayed in school at the once school a little longer
As long as I had been expected to, really,
As long as most of the rest of them did
And maybe I would have won things for which
I was in the running
Before I tripped over my own feet
And one or two conveniently stuck out in my path
Amid snickering

Been nicer to that one kid in Kindergarten
Not tried so hard to shove how smart I was down their throats afterward
Tried so hard to get out of being wrong
Read a book instead of looking at a screen
Practiced my horn instead of reading quite all of those books
Gone out and done instead of staying in all those nights
Been working instead of going out with friends
Made friends instead of making grades
Because it isn’t what you know
Because you can always learn something else
But some lessons only get offered once
And I skipped those classes in favor of attending others
More normal
More formal
And a lot of good it did me
If good is measured by creditors’ ledgers
And therapists’ bills

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Δ

Heart pounding
Chest heaving
Feet pumping
Breath leaving

Still sitting
Still sitting
On no pallid bust of Pallas
That allegiance long forsworn
Chasing after Mammon
Though shoes and feet are worn
Clutching after castoffs
Grabbing them up though forlorn
Eating of them, greedy
Of all dignity long shorn
But stopping is the other choice
And stopping earns all scorn

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The skin is peeled away
The sagging muscles and drooping sinews
The rotting bones showing to the world
And though I did not always enjoy being inside her–
More so when I entered through one door than through another
And found myself blowing something in my own mouth–
Seeing her abandoned so and
Flayed
Decaying
Carrion worked over by scuttling things
As I pass by again and again
My own heart is bared to the Hill Country sun
And the winds funneled between the limestone swellings
Covered by oak and cedar and mesquite
Moisture unforeseen squeezed out

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I used to drive a lot
Threading my way through the byways
And speeding along the highways
Knowing where I was going and
Skipping the scenery along the way as I
Made sure that I got there

But the car I drove then has gone away
Sold to cover one debt or another
And I’ve lost track of how much I owe to how many people
And I managed to get by on buses and trains for a time
Since I lived where they run
And still knew where I was going
And hurried along to get there
Focusing on how and how quickly
Not thinking about why

I had to buy another car
When I moved away from there
Not because I’d stumbled upon Texas tea
Not because I moved to Beverly
But because I still thought I knew where I was going
And thought I’d found a shortcut to get there
And I was wrong on both counts

Here, I’ve bought another car
And I putter along the local roads where I learned to drive
Again
Moving more slowly as others race by me
Remembering when I was one of the ones who sped on
Having somewhere worth being
Being someone worth having

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Coruscating colors clash and confound
Me as I look at the world around me
Contained within four walls
And framed by sash not raised up to show
The flabby pale and pasty thing within
Never firm anymore despite how firm a grip
Upon it might be taken

The old longing rises yet again
To mimic taking in hand some
Long thing and working it back and forth
To make pregnant some furrowed places
Or make a good attempt at the same even if
The fields that might once have been planted
Are gone so long fallow that they
Will not take the plow and can yield no harvest
Save some small misshapen thing that might
Have featured well in the circuses of years past
But no more because we think we have
Grown past such tawdry entertainments
Although few if any of us will look away from a
Spectacle that presents itself

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Old Jeremiah could at least believe
The god he served would give him a reprieve,
But I that faith have long since had to leave
For seeing Stupid God delivered praise
By many mouths across too many days.
In wilderness and scorched by summer rays,
In empty lands and frozen by the chill,
In office chair with pen in hand until
My fingers bleed, I rant, but still
The words I give, I give to no avail;
My throat grows hoarse, my wrists ache, and I ail
And falter, bloodless, growing deathly pale
Because my hope now far away has fled
And creeping death approaches in its stead.

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