Thursday, October 29, 2015


Who knows? you'll shrug, gesturing—
the extent to which those 
stiff and still wan yellow
shafts of early light—
which seem to channel forever 
down from the creased mouths 
and distended 
cheeks of antediluvian clouds, 
without ever seeking ground—

bestow anything? 
or were, for that matter—
themselves bestowed in the first place?

But who? she'll answer—if ever last
left standing here, 
alone on this hot screaming rock and
in the face of annihilation,

would dare remain mired
in the valley 
of his or her own stubborn perspicacity
and still insist on penning and pinning 
his own clever lyrics to 

that vast soundless music 
out the window there—

which has sustained not only your mother,
but her mother,
and her mothers' mother, 
and her mother's mother's mother too, 
and so-on, and so-on, and so-
and so, on—

But—What is god, mom!
other than 
our ultimate 
concern in that moment?

Exactly!—what God is, 
young man,
IS your ultimate concern,
every second.