Friday, August 17, 2018

Man in the Maze

Aaaand...we're back! Here's a seriously reworked way old+new poem to celebrate over 10,000 page views of poems that have appeared on this here Rabbit's Gone Missing over the past few years. (Which is cool but scary because we *know* lots of those views are courtesy of our spammer frenz around the world. But spammites need poetry too, and we totally fantasize about an evil yet brilliant multilingual spammaster being so moved by some poem that they simply must steal it, elegantly translate it into their fifth language, and publish it to great acclaim in a random country, news of which we shall never hear about.) So cheers to all, especially all who actually read...and even more to all who actually enjoy! (Plus extra cheers to all who link and share!)


John Singer Sargent made nicer sketches

Fate is not the architect.
Fate is for weak gods and
bad storytellers. Which is why
you’re so enraged with this inaction,
this gliding track, this resigned
fall from the skyscraper

Which has no builder, 
no path, no root language 
of travel. So who’s your enemy 
now? Maybe you’ve been set up; 
you’re both double agents, you and fate, 
triple double agents! You’re both 
more in love with what can 
never be but is still

Collage that we are here for.
The mystery we keep unfolding
and folding into birds of prey that,
at rest, fit over one another into a rebuilt
umbilical that keeps on saying we're
always home. While always lost.
Which is why what you will
make is still mystery to me.
From which I am drawn,
made, drawn

From so many ash-stricken
smoldering remains of what was
once forest, hill, vacation home tract
mansion deer bone burial mound
nothing so trite as past lives but
always all the ephemera that
gave and hid life and
death and life and

So it’s a heavy load, sleeping 
while this castle’s built out of thin 
air, the lion drinking dry the lake lap by lap 
because your spoon was inadequate

As all the nights you’ve fought
back against the tide and the 
sand, your back to the hot 
frozen form always there 
shadowing silhouette 
but never quite 
touching

What is so much 
bigger than you. You have no 
idea, you've no ideas! It’s more than 
a conspiracy, more than plans to take over 
the world; the idea is about you walking 
from here to there, getting into your car, 
choosing not to kiss, getting out 
to kiss; thinking, not speaking. 
Speaking and thinking

It will become beauty again

Your junkyard heap and flow 
of perfect juxtaposition of every 
surface you believe in, I love it all

All the green turns of the circuit
board in the slum dump—all its silver 
circles and minute black holes, its curves 
and symmetry, its convergence and 
imbalance—soon to be made new 
and yes, become even beauty 
again.  Exacting.  
galaxy unto itself

And the circle maze hidden in 
the blanket, the basket, the locked buckle 
that's mystery yet purely to the point, its lines 
moving with you, seamless, no real detour 
needed. Yet it will take your whole life 
to travel, whole, beyond the linear
fall of dominos, walls only now 
we escape. Only now

We create.