Toss out the gold box
it contains no pearl
Throw away all the books you will never read
flick slivers at the bin
How long did he think they’d last,
the gold teeth years when you’d eat Cornish hen
and dabble in consumer electronics,
matte-black and Japanese?
He learned about intake manifold gaskets and
engine coolant temperature sensors and
did not go to college and was satisfied in
knowing what it took.
Spools of magnetic tape rewinding,
the analgesic backward burbles of brooks.
He knows that those
boring, storied glory days
will concede their distance.
As if their easy luxury was a thing that could
in fact roll back:
An automatic mini-van door.
Also then, a thing learned about the sun:
(In the dark, when I was twelve )
it would die
and convulsing, eat the earth.
Did it keep me up, buddy David, thirteen, wise and wired, wondered?
I could see his eyes were on their toes,
darting around in the dark. Couldn’t actually see
but knew they were racing to put a back-up plan together.
Maybe we would fly to Alpha Centauri in a Lego spaceship.
It doesn’t come back.
The 1980’s, or this side of the sky.
I tremble for God’s arrival, he doesn’t come back either.
There is no peace, just awe.
All beauty hatches from a goose egg,
or is embroidered with a thread of gust.
So all glory goes to the stitcher.
Feel good hit of the fall:
all throbbing bass and sudden tears.
No life cycle, just corkscrew gyres.
The beauty of the world is the same beauty of anything,
coming through its onceness, its infinite almost the sameness
The beauty of the world is 7 seconds of a cartoon about trains
illuminated in an olive mini-van’s dusty back windshield after sundown.
“Eurekas!” scantily sufficient
for proper illumination.
The scales don’t drop until
you would not rejoice
over how they clog the drain.
I tell my wife about his struggle
and she falls straight asleep.
Did he rig it up?
Rig what up?
The staircase thing…
She falls silent into deeper sleep.
I wish I knew the heights to which she and he sighted.
“Eurekas” are wholly insufficient for proper illumination.
I am not bothered by the luxury of being able to listen to music all the time, as that is how it will be in heaven.
God grant us the wisdom to know the novel from the present.
Outwardly silent, ear-muffed in our symphony of electronic flatulence and with gazes fixed: Bohdidharma would be impressed (not understanding our technology, nor our stares).
- The love of continuity. Our love, my love. The shivering, sniveling demand that thing stay the same. Age is the same as change and nothing ever stays the same. We are built for death, and built to rebound.
- Nothing is as bitter or as sweet as we would wish. From which springs our love of stasis; we cannot enter the paroxysms of our faiths, our television, our pop songs.
- Yet we hang and push, push and hang.
- We are fit to eat the crumbs beneath our children’s high chairs.
- But not fit because of it.
Absurd to think that heaven could contain pursuit or leisure.
Art or work: the particulars of these are inevitable and must never be confused with character or soul
The problem of Christianity is merit.
Our guilty pleasure is not a top forty hit, but to hear our hearts sing.
Satisfaction only matters at night, just as sleep only matters for day.