Thursday, September 15, 2011
All We "Know"
It's easy to live within the circle of your own sanctity
but out on the edge
is where chickens die.
Inviolable is an envious place
yet even condoms have holes
and the impenetrable get pregnant.
Do you lie to yourself when you say there is no god?
Your knowing is not immutable.
I would rather stalk truth
than squat down with my stake
cemented in the corner of a world I did not build.
Certainty is a slippery slope.
How long were we convinced the world was flat?
If you are closed to any truth
but the button you have pinned to your lapel,
the bumper sticker layered over the last worn statement,
it will crack you open like an egg.
You will run out and watch yourself separate
into what you know and what is true, and then untrue,
and then unknown.
I have been the bakers dozen
and that thirteenth was nearly my undoing.
I watched the sun rise this morning.
I watched it seduce the clouds
lick the underside of things thought dead.
I thought to rise tomorrow, ready to capture such a miracle again
as if it were a certainty
At that point I called my own folly
and labeled myself the fool.
(I've stared at my journal for the better part of a week. "Write something upbeat Annie. Write something POSITIVE. Be brilliant but bright." Ha! All I accomplished was to snuff out my muse. I know nothing but what needs to be written during a short lunch. This poem is stained with cucumber and pesto chicken. Perhaps it was indigestion.)