Poem for Saturday, August, 29, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

VI.

There is a (one of many, actually) post-modern minstrel

who plays my favorite hymn. He uses the sacred, polished

        acoustic guitar of whoever/whatever created us all, and it's always

              flawless, and it's always cathartic, and did I just die?

                                                    No.

Listening deeper, I grow chary of things.

        One day long ago, I was walking around in an Indian

reservation, shards of pottery older than my nation itself beneath

my feet.

        Another day long ago, I was walking on the Golden Gate

Bridge--early August, cloudy, 70 degrees. I have never felt

more spiritual.

        Yet another day long ago, you, weeping father, wrote

me the most genuine letter I've ever come across, telling me

you loved me.

You see, I have felt alive!

        And this feeling has spoiled me, like an Epicurian with an eternal supply

of manna. Because I cannot always feel this way, because

I am something called human, I will be terribly, terribly

                   deprived during my last chemical exchange. It's poison, it's

a humble realization, but so be it.

I

 am

      ready.

I want to be honest with you, reader. With all of you, readers, about this:

        science textbooks tell us that we are nothing

more than 46 chromosomes intertwined, 70% water, unpredictable

genetic allelic entities that thrive on oxygen.

The reason why I hate science is because it says nothing about

        LOVE. The closest it gets is talking about erections, which

are only sometimes love, but not enough times.

Trajan's Column is erect. Big Ben is erect. I am not (until you're

        ready, girl on the concrete steps). And I could

talk forever about exquisite monuments, weeping father, beloved mother,

manly brother, and Stoic grandmother. But I won't.

A new planet was discovered; it will combust within a million

years because of its orbiting and its moons.

                                That is way too soon. That isn't soon enough.

Which

is it?

       And what planet can exist without love and erections?

       And what planet do I want to be on when the creator

realizes they made a costly mistake in letting humans interact?

       And what planet am I from?

       And have I even sprung from my beloved mother's womb?

       And have you?

Those shards of pottery on the Indian reservation--they meant

            the world to me.

(to be continued)