3429. HONORE, TAKE ME BACK

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).