At the starting line, there are so often
things we mean to write or say
aphoristically—but it
never turns out that way.
In no time flat, the words begin
to clump in herds,
to yoke themselves up—and we
can't resist plowing
aimlessly forward:
mowing down the clean
mentality of trees,
uprooting the humbler mammals'
homes as we go on constructing
another eight lane road to god-
knows-where, without even caring
which direction we're going.
But then, where in hell have aphorisms
ever gotten us anyway?
I remember hearing once, for instance,
that love is all you need,
that it'd be just the thing
to light the way, to show me
where I was going and
where I would stay.
But now I think
the most useful emotion
is whichever one
is still in the tank,
whichever residual feeling
remains, whichever mood we still feel
lingering in the sweaty air
at the end of our labors
once we've finally had the courage
to drop every implement, turn
around filthy, and survey the truth
about where it is we came from.
