Marginalia
Oh and I
decry,
the death of
myth and
tribe, all more
taxing as days
pass, leaving as they do
a residue of
complacency to
tarnish any thought
of possibility
through doubt
and resistance
through some
bold action
all the heroes seem
hobos or slaves
I respect
no one, least
myself
railing against
ghosts from
down in the
basement somewhere
scared of clear air
and public
randomness
but oh! I
suspect the
gods inside
will exact
revenge
through unconscious
slights, wakeful
nights, and
the loss of wonder
reverie
exhilaration
last laugh
to those who
suspected my wish
for an original life
was another form
of laziness,
quixotic, naive
BUT OH! it once was
and still could
be, with a
rebirth of myths and
tribes, hero-
scribes,
bold actions
and humans being
outside
the possibility demands
more hands
and less eyes
more plans
and less rye
more thought
and less sighs
just the same the suns set
moons rise