On the day the Greater Good showed up, we were just standing around tapping our feet,
thinking about what to do next. But it soon grew weary, and demanded action (and an
omelet), and it did so in such an inelegant way that spittle rained down on our
faces. Some of us resisted, afraid of the coming bloodshed. We wanted to use
our heads and hearts. But others began to sharpen their blades. The Greater
Good knows all about heads and blades. Some say the Greater Good is nothing but
your average vampire. I doubt that, otherwise it would shrivel in daylight.
He writes a poem. It turns out terrible. He’s
hateful, you’re loathsome. He writes a good one, it’s a great one, he’s great,
and so are you. Poems get between other poems on a shelf at home. It was always
like that, on a shelf at home, in a cabinet, a chest, a box with an airtight
seal, a bedroom without a window. He squawks like a peacock about the
hummingbird’s flight. It was always like that, cloaked in fine feathers. The
poet and the poem have words; hey, you’re an okay guy, the poem says. The poet
agrees. They walk off, mind in mind, beneath a blue sky with pink clouds. They’re
like lovers. We sit on the sidelines, booing, applauding, yawning, as the
Trembling, stuck in the bloodshot center
Of the bullseye, flights flying the flags
Of doing it the same way differently.
You'd have to sit awhile and imagine it
As it is and not as you thought it was,
Good versus evil versus evil versus good
Where winning means everyone loses.
You'd have to sit with an open mind
And an open heart, ready to eat, to talk
Past winning and losing; us is them
Should be the prayer before that meal.