The Path Home is Never As Inscrutable As It Appears



How many tarantulas can you fit On the head of a pin? I managed forty-six once, Long ago, before I went in the army. Then again, it was a large pin. Now, I no longer have the gumption Nor the legs to chase them down And mold them into the sleek smooth fighting machines Necessary to take a crap In the face of Fate. That is a young man’s game And as you can deduce From my glitches and echoes I can do crazy all by myself. Then again, without spiders One does get a tad lonely.

So put on a kimono and come On over to my house, The walls are made of fire And whiskey runs from the tap. I’ll conjure up a new math So Heaven can be a round-trip ticket. I wouldn’t trade this life For all the stars in my pockets. We’ll raise pigeons And name each one Hope Then release them into the sky Covered red-shouldered in hawks. Then when the report Gets in the hands of document control We’ll turn on the invisible ink And the streets will run transparent with tears. How many birds does it take To fill the sky?

Enough to count backwards From Infinity Yet again despite the plentitude Of pulchritude we are subjected to In the world we relent. I’d like to be a ghost anymore, A beginning but no end Passing through and passed through All of us and all of it. When I feel powerless I feel angry. Spare me the ones who want to live, They don’t say anything I haven’t heard before.

Show me the ones mad to die And there you’ll have your novels, cities, Grocery stores, umbrellas, opossum traps, X-ray machines and all of the everything else That we strive for to keep us awake Tasting like a slow poison From an ex-lover whose meatloaf Never tasted so good so we, We just keep shoveling and shoveling And shoveling it in…


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