Thursday, November 25, 2010

Put to a Good Question

will we be around one another,
know each other, still be friends
and still have a share of this love
when we are old, wrinkled, weak and gray?

God, i hope so. let it be so,
no matter what comes now, next and after that.

we've come of age at the epic crossroads
of this human time, a very human time,
where doubt and faith are ever still a battle,
and left and right trade blows and positions,
and our parents and their parents have no
real or sound idea what their work has become---
or will do---where the ringing bells
of certain and uncertain things now
drown out the silver tones of absolute things,
and sea change happens and key change happens
and commercial breaks happen
and government takes holiday
and trading is forced to start then stop daily
with weekends between weekdays
and fasting days and shopping days
and men in space sometimes circulate
and sometimes spacemen explode
while the dawn of information continues
and the new and high tech boom's haroom goes
alpha-alpha, la-la, omega wattage boom!
the age of evil cartoon

and atmospheres normal with absurdity festooned,
not a good place, not a good time,
yes for a change but yes only a while.
an age with neither substance nor style.

here we are, me and you, just children
of artisans, capitalists, entrepreneurs,
patrons, advocates and demagogues,
gurus, guides and executive producers, children!
of hero myths and real medusas,
of hieroglyphs softly drawn cross each other's back
and bedtime stories on long distance calls.
here we are then, seduced always
by the glitter of idea and possibility, children
of twentysomething amendments,
of fivehundredsomething elected sock puppets,
of million fold households of wedlock and divorce,
of front desk, back alley, tabletop baby making and aborts,
of continuously improved programs for the worse,
of mind-altering everything,
of bliss and self-destruction tapped, bottled, canned,
of self-help manuals beneath stage lighting
and the uber-collective of mind whispers
picked up by the amps of our exhausted bodies,
enhanced by feverish dopamine-depleted brainwave patterns,
of buildings and things made, on purpose,
to fade and break and hurt,
of bodies recycling every seven years,
of stardust in clouds and cloud dust in snot,
we're children in the age of Yes but Not.

God, i do hope for you to be there near me
when gray has us both and all these other things
are still true or proven false but still there,
for it then is ours the luxury to say
we, among so few, made something once,
long ago that could not die or fade,
long before we had any idea what we made,
and beyond this luxury of ours to say
'yes, we are old and gray, but we have this love'
is the thing itself, that we have,
living of its own right to live,
proven immune to all known destruction,
having given at every stage from inception
both its temporal and palpable wonders
and the memories these wonders yield,
each one a rung in our life ladder,
the one we climbed sometimes terrified to get here,
the one we can now move freely along without fear,
revisiting and in someway reliving it all again,
safely and knowing the plan of it all,
and no guilt for any pleasure we gave each other,
nor feel it overstatement if we re-author
the words lover with angel, and meeting with miracle.
at this stage of life i foresee by hope,
as vessels, each, who carried the essence of each
the long while across the time sea,
we are to look at one another then
and say the word love and know exactly what it means.

God, yes, of my life achievements,
I hope something like this is one.

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