Thursday, May 28, 2015

All the Lame Our Glory Provides

It’s impossible to get to me.  I’m surrounded
By the best of the nest. And still, orphans show up,
The blind, the old, women too, many whose limbs
Were torn from their bodies, their stumps like erasers
At the chewed ends of pencils broken beyond use.

Hundreds of thousands have limped past, dragging
Themselves through their I-tragedies like monsters,
Learning how to live without an arm or leg, learning
To eat without faces, to chew without jawbones,
How to swallow without heaving it back on the plate,

Teaching patience to their loved ones.  I see them riding
Punishment’s conveyor belt, top billing in the drama
When I lift the curtain of my eyes, driving or dreaming
About my place in their suffering. And that’s when
I imagine myself as one of them, over the guardrail

With a carload of guilt, exploding in a ball of flame,
Like a more cinematic Jesus, dusted for the world’s sins
And souls bound for hell. That’s when I grip the wheel
A little tighter, and clear my eyes. That’s when I think
To pat the backs of all the creative-destroyer types,

Because, otherwise, chaos would be the only author.

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