“All essays have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Thus, all essays make you stupid." We know Aristotle said this several years ago, and only pretty recently did someone bother translating it into English, which was very thoughtful of them if you stop and think about it. And if we've learned anything from this statement as well as other statements by dead people written down and then translated by other dead people, we've learned how important it is to know why you’ve done something. So while you ponder that, strike a pose. Someone is always watching.
And so we go.
November comes, falls and flees,
Throwing colors at our feet.
They won't dance for me
But if asked, might show
Where they danced before
Whirling while I grieved
The years that I alone
Had need to bear and be
You left your necklace on the table.
I have no sight. I see.
When knights repose in meadows
And the hidden kings decree,
Why does Johnny twist his tongue
Pour La Belle Dame Sans Merci?
God mad His mountains
So we'd learn how to climb
Like the Devil made Percy
To free us from Time.
I am the Disaster of Dirt and Plaster,
The cursling of the Sky;
I clog up the pores of maidens and bores;
They weep, but I merely cry.
Little birds, weep not for Adonais!
I tended him on his coughing bed,
Wiping the mouth's great gleam of red,
Then fit my Shelley for his shoes of lead.
I will act kind, I will seem pure,
I will tell everyone, "I'm sure."
I'll find a poison for the cure.
I heard of Hermes from books
Tossed across fault lines, from man
To boy. From voices strained
On the stage, to the complacent ink.
Through widening ruins, fathering centuries,
A trickery passed down
In luxurious wardrobes.
But I have scaled these lips,
And these. And have traced centuries also
Through this willful terrain. A speechlessness
Wrapped in what a thousand pregnant mothers bring.
I learn the day from its newest breath. From daughter
To daughter, across the unbreakable lines of shadows,
Your body echoes mine.
For life, for this tonight, put away our intimacy;
Turn from the flower and embrace the stone.
You and I must make peace with the wreckage
Pushed aside by merchants and palm readers.
If not us, who? Courage stretches further
Than any hand that holds its longest hour.
I've grown sick eating the vomit of words.
Do not confuse me with sure joy.
Curve beyond desire and help shoulder
This forgotten weight the world needs shouldered.
In the morning we'll know a little more
Of this art of loving, of bowing to our service.
Professionals don't love,
They let the anchors choose,
From their fog-filled channels,
The late heartbreaking news.
But I want to show thee
In time, what time can't keep.
Let's make our haste slowly,
And unload it for cheap.
If only I had the sense to shave
Off this thick archaic rime,
We could set verses free by a grave
Like a pie for dinner time.
So let them tell Splendor she is done,
For I have seen a mountain eat the sun,
And have taken as a sacred task to replace
Their learned theories with human grace.
If life seems odd,
You're learning to see
Bird shadows snugged
In the wind-stained tree
Where you hang this feeling
Of sleeping in a noose.
Do ash and autumn
Mix to any use?
The gold leaves burn
In backyards with you.
A bent branch reserves
A space for two,
Or anything at all,
Let her hands wake yours,
To let you choose you.