Play the Fool

I guess we're all gonna play the fool
here, every one of us pullin' the wool
down over our own eyes, so bound
to fantasy we fail to feel the wound.
Senses dulled, we mistake the blood
on our hands for mere color, mood
enhancement for dancing with death,
toying at life. We dare not look 'neath—
hell, we won't even look the surface
square, who are we kidding? In case
we slip and feel too fresh the brush
of truth, we have the tools to push
it aside, or bury it far enough down
to forget, we think, what was known.

In Prophetic Fashion

Despair is not my style. I don't wear it well,
and it clashes with my hope-toned skin. But.

But.

Here I am, staring down a whole wardrobe
of sackcloth and ashes. I just want to wail
in the streets, moan, mourn all we've lost,
all we've yet to lose, and soon. How has it
come to this? By what strange sorcery did
we trade all the beauty and holiness of the
world for thirty pieces of silver? It's a con,
all of it, all that comfort and convenience,
all that ease and repose. False gods, all of
them. We are all idolaters now, all sinners
in the hands of an angry God, breakers of
the covenant of goodness, crude foulers of
the fine work of the Divine Hand, faithless.
Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand!

Ottawa County

A day's ride, or less, at the leisurely pace

of a sound, fit horse—a rare find these days—
is one way to measure the world, this world,
the one for which I am responsible, like it
or not. Twenty-two miles, give or take, from
north to south, from east to west. No stranger
to heartache and harm, this patch of ground
bears scars, as do the living and dead who
people its pastures, rivers, history, and hills.
I no more wish to abandon this place than I
wish to part with my own rib cage, beating
heart within. And yet, I have not yet known
it, not in the least. Grand Spirit, help me find
the pace of Your repair of the world, this one.

Muddling is the way.

Fumbling and befuddled,
disheveled and frayed—
that's how it gets done.
You have your moments
of insight, but they flee
on close inspection, and
you're left feeling your
way in the dark and the
fog, crawling at times,
hands raw, knees purpled
from buckling under the
weight of not knowing—
or, rather, knowing the
only thing you'll ever
know for sure is you'll 

never know for sure. 

From the Bluff

I get the utility here. I mean,
I get it as much as I can get it,
from a distance, from this high
remove, perched here, safely,
it seems, above the fray. I feel
none of the rush of play, none
of the neurochemical surge of
the art of it, the game of it. So
slow, so thick, my humours,
vein slugs, vulnerable to birds
of prey. And yet, I imagine it:
the squaring off, the refusal to
look away, the hell-if-I-know
knocked together with the no-
holds-barred instinct to Stay.
Alive. I get the necessity of it,
the absolute inevitability of
the fight on this turf, on these
terms. But I'm tired, tired of
these stakes, these methods—
tired of this game, useful as it
is, here. I long for a longer
game, one veering off toward
infinity. So I raise my gaze to
the horizon, the ever-elusive
edge of sight, the realm of
eternal possibility. I get that.