Tuesday, January 3, 2017

DUDE'LL DO

Dude, congratulations;
you're the sun.
(You know exactly

how the world
will end, can see
the blueness

of prairieland sky
for what it
really is—a dream, etc.)

And your job now
is—to say
and do nothing

regarding these
things, but just
to keep moving,

even when
it feels dumb;
keep going,

keep doing
the same thing, over
and over again.

And not only
that, but do it
in a way that

feels new—not to you,
but to the ones
who need it to.

And so, you
do it. And you do
it, and you

do it 'til you're
in pain. Then,
after that, you do it

again. You do it
'til you're sick,
'til you're numb,

'til you're
half-insane. You do it
so many times

that you no longer
know your own
name. But that's fine,

since by then,
you don't really have to—
they do. That huge crowd

down below you,
they all do.
You can just listen

to what they shout
as soon as you
first appear in the morning:

Survivor! Survivor! they all
crow, almost
in union.

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