the fool

a small gravel road i remember,

goes back into the hills

stark under a southwestern sun,

watery visions of deep thirst

and brown earth.

i questioned then,

what it meant to be there,

a stranger.

i watched men sweat cowboy sweat,

broken fence fixed,

wounded horse in ditch shot,

the sweat of a long day in dust.

i watched soldiers sing soldier curses,

a moral anger at authority

obeyed without hesitation

and skilled in the art of straight.

i watched priests pray

just, solemn prayer

raise their voices as arms

and genuflect the faithful dance

of hymn, rhyme

and communion.

i watched ant like men

crawl through great bowels

and metal intestines

producing nothing more personal

then spit and blood

boiling on the floors of their factories.

(the fool dances

ready to step off a cliff

ready to talk to strangers

that might show him

in which direction to leap next

the fool makes plans

to keep his child like mouth

beyond the day when

he knows he must talk plainly

and choose.

but fools never select

they are selected

like rocks on the bottom of a river

pushed along by the currents

until finally they lodge against something

unmovable

some event

some object

some body

some person.)

and i question now

what it means to be here

a stranger pacing the halls and roads

of his birth.

a liar in familiar rooms

a middle timed listener

hearing the footfalls of young woman

in the dusk

who whisper and point and say

“lets talk to him while we can

while he’s young enough that

his bones won’t break and there’s still

money in his pocket.”

i write in streams

and ignore

their breath and bodies

to answer endless questions

that i might never be able to answer

whose answers change daily

monthly

with the greying of my face

and hairs and hands.

and while they dance and sing in the halls,

talk about me and play,

eternally assured that the years will

never tug at their bodies,

i walk down a soft hot

hill country road

smiling softly to

myself

and pleasantly questioning

what it means to be here

a stranger.

Reviews

[Vertigo Cat1111]

‘I write in streams, and ignore their breath and bodies.’
This piece is a canyon of beauty. There’s dips and cliffs and moments when you think it’s over then it throws you again, in the best way possible. Powerful, intense and beautiful. It’s a poem that feels like traveling and going on vacation. An adventure of life. Thank you so much for sharing this brilliant and beautiful piece. I loved it. (: