Hold my hand against the wall
And blow the pigment through the reed
Here am I and there us all
And everything that you need.
There’s the cattle of the plain
And there the bird of the sky.
Avoid the horns that cause pain
And the spots that lie.
We’ve been here for generations
Citizens of these caves
Remembering all of the lamentations
That came with the abundance of graves.
Do you ever think that these prints
Will hold on for many winters and springs
Like the shadows of the bones’ remnants
Or the wings on the platters of kings?
I may know your name and you know mine
But that will dissolve like the flesh and marrow
But the while the maple may die, the pine
Stays green throughout the reigns of the pharaohs.
Give me your hand and I will blow the pigment
To reveal yourself on the walls of our home
To let you know that you are not my figment
And have mastery over the loam.
There we are on the wall
There we are distinct from the wrawl.
Since We Last Parted
For the Class of 2020
No one can predict the future
Especially in the classroom
Like a jewel in a suture
Lost in the ink of the book doome.
I know you wanted an ending
More deserving of the stories
We read in class or poems sounding
Like national songs for glories.
Four years of work now combusting–
An incandescent bulb dying
The wolfram’s wire rust encrusting–
The lumens seemingly descrying
The setting sun ‘fore new moon.
How can there be celebrations
When a force unsee’ble impugn
Entire lands. Generations
Seeing the pain of the fourth horseman.
His pale horse’s breath worsening
The malfeasance of congressmen
Washing the lambsblood’s safe painting
On the wood. How can joy be found
In a time marked by its ebbings?
A season not of harvest proud
But of locusts unassuaging
Hunger. It seems to be the endtimes
But take to heart that we rose from
The ether and the mist. The windchimes
Produce to us tunes that we can rhumb
To be our echo. This is your
Song to be grooved into vinyl
That can be retrieved evermore
Listening for tunes not final.
There are those who would say that the teacher is dead
Because of the advent of computers
Which can instruct vis-a-vis
Like Alexander’s tutor looking out on Macedonia
And showing all of the land alexandrine
As the bodies dance on the firmament
Guiding the cavalry under the tails of comets.
There are those who would say that the teacher is outdated
With her books chanting the chorus of fords, farms, and factories
When the world is lit by electrical fires in plastic forges—
A beauty bound by beast’s lasso—
A mill the bedfellow of a dam.
There are those who say that the teacher is
An archer with a weightless quiver
Constantly missing his bullseye
But satisfied that it hit a target—
A rain of arrows will eventually kill a steer
Even though it costs a drought of arrowheads.
There are those who would say that the teacher is evil—
The mouthpiece of the devil
Spouting out the the flames of moloch as gospel
Making a generation of degenerates
Espousing the ways of wrong.
Under a million rotations of the sky,
There are those who wish to bridle the village
And blame the ills on knowledge rather than action—
The seeds in the mouth rather than the thieving hand—
A stained-glass of little lies built up as truth blocking out the sun.
The teeth of the dagger hurt just as much as its wielder
You cannot blame the canines in your side solely on the hound.
The truth is imbued with the harshness
Just like Diogenes’ man thrown on the steps of the Academy.