Featured Poem 8/30/05

For Monday, that.

What animal is this?

of half-logic and rapid speech
of controlling features and
a hundred thumbs
a thousand thumbs.

Foreign, I say.

Which is not bad, mind you.
Not inherently in any case.

Time will be the matter of such
an animal mixed with
a medicine.

And compassion.
And trust. Words.

Society is near retirement, do you not know?

A man named Intuition
told me
of a greater animal
that was just
born.

Hearsay I say I
         cannot
         believe everything

         except

a fire built of entire forests

and I retreat
because some things are greater than

I.

(return)

Lucky, indeed, to have been appreciated for telling
a story of a people long ago who crawled down from
airships on hemp ropes into the plaza during some social
service with drums and wine.

I was there and I can tell you

that man is
         from
many places.

And the logics will tell you that what I am about to say is
         impossible,
         just like red rain
         and desert melons and
         sea people and
         the way cultures grow smaller the greater the xenophobia,

         that
         time is an ocean and time is redundant
         time is an ocean.

To the logics.

But

I know who can appreciate

theory. And I am not married

         to a theory.

And certainty, it is a theory. And certainty, it is a theory.

Doubled to matter,
and

gone.

Leaving leaves circling on the porch in
         November winds
like time itself retelling itself in spirals until
it dissolves

or either
the snow will come forgiving.

And the laws of biogenesis or either
quantum psychology, I am certain
         it will have been a theory.

For Monday, that.
For Monday, that.

Greg Markee

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