Obstacles enough to keep this slow dance
interesting, to claim dexterity replayed,
we watch ourselves as movie stars sans
parade, glitter, or colored tabloid poses.
But the tempo and the tune are changing,
gearing-up with heavy guns for more
profitable exchanges, backroom deals
to satisfy the planet’s oligarchy, a lust
for luxuries yet to be imagined by mortals.
Frolicking pawns in this ascent towards
godliness, without remorse we emulate
with more consumption than the future
can afford for one last bash, the flash
of Armageddon, the sort of souls
the righteous have been waiting for.
Busy in place away from the mainstream,
we are forgotten shepherds tending flocks
on uneven ground, looking to the sky
for rainstorms, for a sign of the tsunami
we trust will roll over us in canyons
of little consequence or significance
for bigger fish to fry. We have survived
what the crumbling skeletons of trees
have not—we have learned to adapt.
You and I, dear friend, who do we write for?
Who among the muses sits closest to our senses?
Who among the deaf do we want to hear
these word games, these songs in praise of grit
and grace, the heartbeat drum off wild tongues
we’ve tried to tame with a clever vernacular?
For the few of us, I suppose, we sing new songs
to the same old choir, the brother and sisterhood
of the page, for the ricochet of words
in one another’s minds, we reach to validate
some sane compassion common among us
before the storm, the holocaust, whatever.