6738. WHY DOESN'T EVERYTHING?

WHY DOESN'T EVERYTHING?

Why doesn't everything take my breath away, break

my heart in two, roil my mind like an Inquisition?

Why doesn't everything break my bones? Ten

year old wood dries out and curls, the butterfly

dies baked onto the radiator of a car somewhere, 

the mountain laurel is trimmed by those highway

thieves who cut and mow to endless degrees.

Why doesn't everything break my balls?

-

I can't stammer any longer but instead just have to

talk, or behead the statue of that saint with his birds,

or cut down some Jesus from his cross alone. I can

park my machine shop in the halls of the meadow, but 

I can't make it work. The ghost in the garden is the

voice of death : industrial-era production making

nothing at all. Jew-clerks selling pennies for money

to profit; books and cattle, paper and wine.

Why doesn't everything break my bones?
(Why don't I learn what I cannot say?)