Pneuma vs. a Lump. Poetree...

Pneuma vs. a Lump

With incremental movement and a creeping fear in the pit of my stomach,

It seems the deep sky is exploding and collapsing in symphony.

Either way, the air is being robbed of oxygen and the crisscross of passenger jets

Continues unabated.

We are as trains on a track here below, unable or unwilling to see the trees hurtling by,

With or without sympathy manufactured and marketed without bile or bran.

Sweet is the work, my God, my King-

We thank you for the bakery treats brought on a silver tray!

Unbroken, concentric rings having brought us to our knees before idols of squozen oranges

And spent cartridges.

"Have you had a break today?" the pixilated vision intones daily.

Nevertheless, their towers of metallic grey, communal pits of flecked gold,

And our faces of molten flesh

Require payment, you know, and accounts are due upon demand.

The judge has gotten rid of the problem, thankfully, and in his chambers

We are still waiting-

Obsessions will fall by the way, loves liquefy and become loam, and meaning turn to powder

As the wait grinds on like bone on iron,

As bread on the high sea.

These are the wages of inattention, dear pillars of salt,

And swift will become the clacking of teeth together while the heat of the day

Divides itself from the wind and drops like dew upon rocks.

Long have the Cheyenne danced on the wind and upon high mesas,

As the Hopi have sung in kivas and corn fields with the permission of Maasaw,

So the Lakota with drums before the tree and in the womb of the Inipi,

On this margin divided by massive stumps and a few good, ancient pines.

Ours is the day when the hoist might reach its apex

Or then again, the straps might break and crush us all under a lifeboat far from the sea.

Precious little are the wages, my gods, my queens,

And as we emerge from bathrooms fully clothed and anointed with kohl and sparkles

And concentric earrings found in public parks only days before they burned,

You will say with conviction, "My father's not dead", and "My Father's NOT dead",

But we have seen through the goal-

There is a sort of phony kindness that shows through this fog of war-

And despite the fact that I am an interminable bore,

The strictures and rules found on all disposable packages

Are all too many have for scripture

And though breathtakingly concise, they lack a certain light and breath,

Dear Lord.