The inevitable balance of will and power,
force and fulcrum, dictates a live wire act
between ground and pole, fear of heights, fear
of falling—an ability to savor the danger
of living with flesh, dying with ease.

Blind we wander through the same room
shouting, “No Surprises!” Our first prayer:
no changes—we negate because there’s so much
to do—wouldn’t it be better if there was only
one chair, one table, four corners to navigate
and the circumference of a flat world mapped?
Life’s like that: a lot of questions and the only
answer anyone knows is, “I don’t know.”
We’ve forgotten the larger questions—
Is time a dimension, or a side effect of boredom?
When we close our eyes do the stars go out?

It’s the loss of the sense of adventure,
an event which occurred synchronously
with the invention of voiceovers. Everyone thinks
there is a little man in their heads telling them
what to do and when it is the American President
on TV they think, “Oh look, he’s just like the
little man in my head.” These people buy cars.
They drive them. They vote. It’s surprising
we don’t fall to our knees trembling in fear
`cause it used to work for the church but look
where they are. It’s like that everywhere.
Give generously.

Everyone loves a parade. Nobody likes
to be sick. Trite but true—that’s the nature
of truth. If it’s easy to understand it must be
true; if everyone would live according to the
truth, life would be a lot simpler. Things
like that can keep you up all night and ruin
your digestion—it’s better to forget them.
Whatever happened to heroes and heroics,
movies with a plot you could understand?
The plot surrounds us and everyone is missing
their lines; economics demand we keep the cameras
running; everyone secretly wonders, “did we load
the film this time?” A plane appears
on the horizon, its silver propellers
beat at the air, it flies past,
we cheer, everyone secretly wonders,
“Will it drop the big one (This Time)?”

A brilliant flash with dramatic blackdrop thunder head.
Scarlet spiralled flames silhouette priapic atom column
smoke fed screaming toothed goat’s head a thousand
stories tall spits lightning from nostrils of steel.
Everyone kneels. Everyone simultaneously believes:
“We oughtta worship this thing.” A manic taloned
finger claws at the sky until the roof caves in;
we close our eyes, the stars go out and we smirk
to ourselves secretly, “I told you so.”

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