when gods make love, they create problems for heroes
and when heroes are done, they don’t look so good,
that’s what you get from the gods, heroes don’t want to be
who they are, so what else do gods do to reward heroes?
they make heroes immortal, because the gods don’t get it
they think it’s first step to godhood, but when they start
heroes on the path of not being human, the first thing heroes lose
is feeling, then, loved ones die, often by the hero’s hand,
and those are actions you cannot undo; once the gods
favour you, people notice, describe your every deed, mercilessly;
heroes stumble no longer able to understand the world
they cannot tell if they are part of it, or already a constellation
following its path through the heavens, listening to stories
of misery and supplication, stories you don’t want to hear
twisted stories about you and things you did once, but not like that
what follows is inevitable; those to be immortal invest in their meaning
build churches, write laws, tell people what to do; it’s hard to explain,
because it’s freedom, power, once you’ve had it, it’s everything
you start to feel inevitable, not a legendary knot begging to be undone;
adoration’s the reason, the way, you’re blind as you stagger to the finish
the gods are also indifferent their gift leads to insanity
madness, final refuge of heroes, usually accompanied by acts of
self mutilation, hands, eyes, genitals removed, all in an effort to replace
what has been taken; sometimes magic helpers create
ingenious devices that distract for a moment, promise to heal
wounds with robotic, magic prosthetics, or poisoned solutions;
finally, the only option, suicide, usually fire, because by now,
a hero is desperate for anything that might change things,
that promise a return to just being someone, but it never
happens, they only burn away remaining humanity and create
another mad god, surrounded by the ashes of finite dreams
walking the starlight mile, accompanied by whispers of misery
and supplication, stories that are your glory, your only glory
Bike Night
Twin beat of tire spokes braid night air
into set of rapids a canoe would fall upon.
Creases of energy propel me deliriously
forward, folds of force comfortable as pillows,
wells of gravity like muscles from beneath.
My legs pound the circle of bicycle pedals
through night soft as sweater, dark, brilliant,
a night when you feel buoyant, lucky



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