HONORE, TAKE ME BACK
Strangely mechanical walks have
brought these two Mexican men
to this porch, where they are sitting
to smoke at 6am. I sense what I
hear : that strangely rattling cough
they each possess, that rangy slimy
tongue they spit and spatter, and those
white construction clothes they wear.
Yet, sadly, this is all. At the other
end of the same, soiled spectrum,
there are others who (I see) do the
same from their own separate vantage:
all those twisting Gods of money and
form, advantage and song, the egregious
dispensing of all manner and rule. Fix me,
oh one, your Dionysian smokes exhausted.
Let me explain things for a minute : I am
vague by design, for each time I deign to
define, some brusque, vain Aleck of mind
shoots me down; sharpshooter in a diction
spattered from a balcony on high. And I am
lost, of course, in a fog of my own creation.
All those books and papers and reasons
and motives and movies and facts. Honore,
take me back. Even at the bakery, I have
told your cornstarch off and turned and left.
Now listen to these things I newly speak :
air power could have won the Civil War;
bad always drives out good; Evil exists, and
its vast and cunning reach enthralls us and
enslaves us; all things pass; beneath everything
you have been told is a lie of the telling;
language is a divine infraction completely
affecting our world; and - lastly, yes -
the world itself does not exist, nor its
tellings or effects (and again I
stand as William Blake).