12/02/2023
Sometimes I look at them all,
And I think “do I really wanna be one?”
One of us, accordingly,
So whom I so fear,
And dither around as I, and they,
Eye one-another with a mutual gaze,
That reads and writes about “what’s”,
And “How’s”, in their housing,
With watts, powered by questions,
Carried by powerful lines,
Charged with the shock potentiality,
Ordered with wires,
Orchestrated and conducted,
Towards visions.
Two, such gorgeous,
Affecting, traditional technologies,
Shoved in socket holes in our eye’s skull’s heads.
Thank you God, thank you God’s craft.
But why did you make so many of us blind?
With planks and beams and splinters,
In what should be there to behold and witness?
I wish ‘em, people, all of em, well,
Not death, disease, famine,
And as for what’s ours and what’s mine,
It’s a pleasing arrangement,
Not a permanent deal,
That we keep what’s ours,
And for a brief-breath,
And that’s the best thing,
That working illusion’s almost real,
Just blindly, maybe, I say,
“All too real”
I thank you, I fell,
I returned,
And I hope that I learned,
From the complex teasing arrangement,
On a mystery,
That’s sure to be my death-knell.
The Humble Rock Dove 