Some New Ones

Treading

You tread the tail of the tiger.

It does not bite you.

Success.

~The I Ching

Divine oracle proven wrong,

unable to rightly read lines

like a tabloid horoscope.

No burning tyger’s tail to tread

and not to lose life

for the sake of success.

Sate gaping mouth with gobbets

of lamb’s flesh from immortal

hand, discord for the sake of blood debt.

To what end, Prophet?

Order ruined at the toss of three coins

inscribed with Lincoln’s face—

Cheap for not using Washington or Sacajawea.

Like Cain unforgiven for improper sacrifice.

At what price, success?

___________________________

It was a staring contest

You and I locked eyes, waiting—

who would look away

or smile first?

And I cannot remember the color,

knowing, you know, in my mind

they’re brownish, with a golden lining,

something about clouds.

Anyway, there we were,

fighting in our silent way,

I knowing I should give way

to the worker in you, even though

I know I must have seen brown

and gold in there somewhere—

cannot even remember the freckles.

Do you have freckles? And we were fighting,

over what? Over who could remain

in the upper room. You won, I lost,

banished to the basement among the unclean

clothes and dog-destroyed couches

in the good company of magazines

of older poets, the virtuous dead.

_____________________________________

Improvisation on “Sliding Down” by Edgar Meyer, Mike Marshall, and Bela Fleck

Triune variations on spheric hymn,

begin pianic simplicity and pass

strings like communal grail.

Strive to impress, lord

of the banjo, flaunt instrumentation

equally primeval and avant-garde.

Double-helix of sound and motion:

compose, recompose, sing or play

into existence catalyst of nascent life.

_____________________________

The Greenhouse

I have never dared to enter the greenhouse.

I have lived here for nearly six years, knowing all along

it existed just over there, beside that brick building.

You can see its vents or fans, whatever they are, protruding

from every other window into my world, asking to be a part

of my world, portals from one place to a place entirely other.

The thing is, I don’t even know if I’m allowed in there.

I could go through its doors and pretend to take samples or notes,

but I am separate, from another plane, a world of meat, or people

and darkened buildings, of fluorescent light and low humidity,

of imperfection—I wouldn’t even know how to pretend properly.

I could say I’m lost, and that would be true. Lost in the Greenhouse—

would make a good title for a book—already done. Lost, then,

in the garden, out of place and out of people, out of time.

Surely someone tends the garden, subdues over-reaching vines,

keeps two worlds from colliding, windows from bursting, resisting

temptation to take one home and spread—what is it?—

beauty? perfection? No. Unnatural productivity.