When god died it didn’t seem that much of a
problem. There was plenty of art to go
around even when science got too proud.
Then media-wise sophistry carved out niches for any believer who wanted
a rest, who could find time to construct chapels and caves in sociology and
sex.
When god still dies, it seems like old news
already. So old it presents no new
problems, in fact, is welcome relief.
And then there was philosophy
with cinematic Ubermensch and kenosis
as doorstop rivals. Or the archaic victories of Apollo and the stern refutations
of De Tractatus. Hegel, math-challenged himself, adapted to
public policy on economic development, I mean, what the fuck? Who even cared to bemoan god’s loss except
the SUV churches anyway? The Trump heretics.
Inchoate lunacy. But for you, a certain
Danish depression takes you closer to “heaven” anyway, right? Anyway, right?
But poetry, now that’s fucked up. Quotidian bookends indeed. There isn’t much left that’s not in a cask
with ashes; the academic career, the workshop lyric and résumé, the carefully
posed obit pic for only a few thousand
anyway, so who cares if it’s dead.
I too wanted the picture of health. I too wanted to make a road by walking. I too wanted to work for insurance companies
and commit suicide in the Gulf of Mexico.
I too wanted a mending wall of facts, scattered from the Gospel of Saint-John
Perse. I was spellbound by a four piece suit.
But Jesus Christ, man, I am not
leaving this shore. The invasion of the
modern world marches inland; it’ll be better when there’s nothing left. Nothing
in the ascent.
Sticking my hand in the space between these very lines. When it stops, the sound that always was, is heard.
The breath of tireless
wolves.
Published in Prospectus, a Literary Offering, Summer, 2021
No comments:
Post a Comment