Baby Cusp

We will ever gain old understanding.

We will debate ceaselessly what is old,

     what is understanding.

We will know the appeal of writing poems

     but not of being a poet.

We will hope you read this.

We will pray you don’t.

We will work with our hands like our fathers.

We will work with our hands like our mothers.

We will work to forget the work that has gone before.

We will only ever be faulty imitations of our past.

We will ride our tricycles with immunity.

We will bear in mind the gravitas of our situation.

We will recognize memory as a tool.

We will recognize memory as a tool that we, metaphorically

     speaking, hit our thumbs with repeatedly.

We will take for granted opposable thumbs.

We will question evolutionary theory.

We will acquiesce to extinction.

We will try to distinguish between levels of personal

     and species, but we will accept that we may

     not comprehend the distinction.

We will admire the hieroglyphs.

We will pretend to understand the need for hieroglyphs.

We will say, when asked, that we understand the needs

     of the hieroglyphs painters to leave their mark.

We will know that we do not know the hieroglyph painters.

We will admire the mountains.

We will frolic in the streams.

We will count the babbles in the brook.

We will use lethal herbicides on our lawns.

We will willfully confuse our participles.

We will overuse, and misuse, and slightly, only

     slightly, abuse our commas.

We will understand this to be reflective of our current need

     to say everything possible, 

     as quickly as possible,

     before we are interrupted

     by someone who has

     the same need.

We will ignore the bigger picture this current need represents.

We will enjoy our pies straight from the sky.

We will change the subject as it fits our needs.

We will steer away from the uncomfortable.

We will consider steering away from the uncomfortable to be a need.

We will hum melodies that we think we created.

We will recite lines that we deem original.

We will know that we do not know the impossible finite number 

     of melodic possibilities

     using our currant tonal accounting system.

We will know approximately 18% of all available words.

We will use, on an average basis, 40% of the 18% that we know.

We will consider that average number to be above average.

We will consider poetry to be revolutionary, no matter

     what we’ve said before.

We will remember that any art serves a social function

     beyond its basic existence.

We will query what is social about functioning.

We will wonder what is functional about society.

We will count every penny.

We will know the number of sand.

We will think we are at the crux of the matter.

We will suffer from the occasionally momentary crush, constantly.

We will lose a friend and consider that moment a nadir in our existence.

We will receive unexpected praise and count the emotion a zenith.

We will actively seek ways around commandments.

We will sing psalms of the future to Clio, and never be assured 

     we are pronouncing Mneme’s name correctly.

We will fancy our writing straight and true, like our lines, like 

     our theories of time.

We will confuse colitis of the eyes and kissing guys.

We will like our misheard versions better than the originals.

We will discuss, only in intimate circles and private spaces,

     the connection between colostomies and

     rutabaga farming.

We will hark to the Lord’s call.

We will always choose the devil at the crossroads.

We will think we are consistent.

We will understand the nature of Janus.

We will think we are consistent.

We will name our gods after our children.

We will create percentages out of thin air, as it fits our needs.

We will mark our territory and mean you.

We will know the inherent fallacies of modernistic tactics.

We will know the inherent difficulties of open verse.

We will hope you don’t read this.

We will pray that you will.

We will heed the moment we meant something,

     we will give voice to the difficulties,

We will fall, like diamonds, for every blue and green 

     rhythm that determines our pulse.

We will count even the feathers of the sparrow,

     we will continue, our hands

     on our heart, we will

     stop.

© 2007/12 – Mark A. Douglas  - All Rights Reserved