OUR PLACE IN SPACE Our egg and our girdle – from our toelines to stars’ beyonds, edgeless sky occupies. Continents and constellations indicate sky’s compass points in all directions. Here, and there, it corrals our air. Sky’s only brake is our imagination: We house our deities in this infinite bubble, map every manifestation of this cosmic envelope. We extract our character and extort destinies through constant observation, keen ingenuity, endless speculation as we contemplate wonderingly at sky’s progress and creation. AMERICSSON Whores parade their hymens and diplomats their swords. Priests display their diamonds. With confusion since birth futures ignore their pasts. Cowards hang their medals and gluttons wear their fasts. The sugar tastes bitter from the sweat of the slaves. All the stones and banners can't cover all the graves. The lame think they're dancers. The blind behave like seers. The deaf play musician. Hiding behind paved mirrors, the meek show ambition. Our clear insight is blurred. O NIGHT, THE DOMAIN OF OUR DREAMS The full world by day is a speckled shade, but colors at night all coordinate. Our humanity claims its sanity’s enshrined in marble but held together by spirit and breath, yet we live in dust and we choose to starve amidst much rich stock. Only dark’s tattoo clears checkered shadows. THE SINS OF POETS AND PASTORS When preachers and poets exercise our metaphorical rhetoric we much prefer the dramatic --the pitchfork of lightning-- above the anticlimactic --a blanket of sunshine. The wrinkled and crippled shall arise sooner than the smooth and the spry. The salve is shadowed by the sting, and Found, by Wandering. The tornado and the torrent and the volcano’s ring are prized beyond plastic ornaments. We tend to the tortured and the tried. TELL ME. ARE YOU SURE? I wonder if once half our limbs were wings, like a fowl, or if they all had thumbs once. Or is that only now? The asker wants to know. Do we see us in mirrors, or need a fluoroscope? Are lovers on the level or are they on a slope? This doubter wants to know. Was Tigris always Tigris or once was it Paradise? Was Jesus a carpenter or always just a christ? This skeptic wants to know. Are the answers on the internet? Or in ourselves? Or should I communicate with oracles and elves? This searcher wants to know. We learn through maturity? But ages are cages…. Or from these ancient books of fingered, faded pages? Don’t we all want to know? QUANDARY Flatter me – Do I receive or repeat? With contempt or reciprocity? THE PROCESS My appetite is my engine. I transubstantiate the wine of night to morning wind, body to pulsed headache state. And I might write undisciplined doggerel to celebrate. I eat that shite. I take it in and digest it. I translate rails into kites and doubt to djinn; vomit; and hope it pulsates.