Whether angel or ego is the culprit
behind the explosive inclination to cry
out the word that in the moment has power
whether it is pulled out of the writhing past
or fallen off the truck careening into the future
you will want to rearrange the clouds
into the shapes of the letters of the word
so that the fields and hills can read it
and share with you the sound of having
discovered one more meaning to it
one more monumentally harmonic clash
hiding hard time and ephemeral place
in the shorthand of a handful of firings
forming a picture of what it feels like
when the prehistoric and apocalyptic
get married in the temple of the brain
and combine their juices on your tongue.

When the impulse comes upon the mind
of the man or woman defining themselves
as thoughtful or artistic or creative
how many times will they repeat it
repeat the impulse as if it were a text
to be edited or a painting to be daubed over?
Some warn against failure like
it was a fatal and painful disease
some might say do not even try
if you do not have what it takes
but would such an expert expert say
hold off until you have in hand
the formula for the finished action
along with enough energy to see through
the inevitable fatigue and distraction
to a child learning to fall right
without breaking arm or leg?

Watch kids playing a game of sport
put yourself in their sinews and glee
or sit participating with children in drama
fashioned out of the social ribbons collected
along the way from baffled to sharp
and pull back your adult curtains
to let enough raw glare into your view
that it seems you are five seven ten
and clutching at barely felt branches
or swinging on untied and unraveling ropes
remembering when struggle squeezed
out of body parts and cussed vocabulary
no matter how shadowy and ramshackle
answered some call picked out of traffic
mostly missed and misunderstood but
some of it hitting you with sweet threat
that says this road you will cross and never
be the same.

I will do justice to the call assembling
tools marshalling sprinkled linkages
laying out the lines of rules and ruling
their angles to add up to a landscape
like the one I played on fearful guitar
like the gossamer forest of characters
I composed in the drift of ordering
history from dates and names into cause
and theory as useful as a fork
like the first love second disaster third
gauntlet of getting close to someone
when the call comes forming itself
out of the moss and drizzle and din
wherein daily we live and swim
I will do justice to my passionate guess
with hint from grammar but spiting it
with echo of discipline but pissing on
the shoes of the stick-wielding minister
of prescription.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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