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triptych by
Michael Hutter, ‘The Triumph of Flesh’ ©
|
symptomatic modernity
( why poets with children might not want to read
the news )
we live in
a world where caring
is a
pejorative hallmark with strings…
yes I may
be cynical, very cynical even,
not
expressing much if any confidence
the
marketeers would have my soul’s back
as much as
my wallet determined worth
currently currency
instead of any measure
of
emotional and spiritual grace
distills
my place and potency
I may be laced
with poison
interspersed
with what good
I am truly
capable of…
this is
where love leads to copulation artistry…
quartering
conquest inside houses of bones…
we pray to
the sands to rain temporary shelters…
we affix a
less dimensional sense of destiny
to the
wind by calling ourselves
kite
masters and puppet players…
we travel
in long mule trains
town to
town to forest clearing
depot
deposited backwaters
and urban sewer
cathedrals
we promote
bowsprit worship
instead of
vocational rudder control…
we watch
our children play hero worship
theater
masking themselves beneath
white industrial
birthed digital noise
flotsam
and jetsam raking with their palms out
as if
there were bread in the skies…
they are
raised with a belief that tomorrow
has
already sold out today and that yesterday
has always
been meant to be painfully
looked
back upon as a starting point
for
something else that might go wrong with humanity…
they may
instinctively understand
we, as a
species might be unable
to stop
ourselves from wanting
understanding
at the cost of a livable salvation…
yes,
dreams tells us,
we can
rise above the frays,
instill in
ourselves a dignity
beyond
category and take the reins,
yes we can
rise it seems
with a
taste of irons in our hands,
the stain
of blood on our lips
and
meaning slowly siphoned away
into a
deepening pool of imagery…
yes, we
can blur the lines
between
sleep states
and the
waking world
while
waiting to wish
upon the
stars
like a
child might
on a near
Summer’s night
when
everything
still
seems possible…
EJR ©
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