Come sit with me
for a moment.
I am the observer mind
and you built me.
Look there, the movie
is playing,
but Jimmy Stewart
isn’t in it.
But I will be your
Clarence Odbody:
that cartoon of Virgil.
Let us descend
to the tenth circle:
where a species
destroys itself.
There they are:
The wildings
of lost Christmases
weaving sticks
and stringlets of catgut
into their hair,
setting traps for
the unsuspecting
squirrel and crow:
another day
to compete
for food,
sharpen
the business end
of brooms,
chip the edges
of obsidian,
and pass the time
lighting bonfires
by the river.
Of course,
it’s all explained
easily
with the death of
last High Church Episcopalian,
laid to rest
with Western Civilization
under a field
of white stones.
“Every year,
the rains and
falling trees
take a few,”
the Wiccan priestess
explains
as she boils bones
in her Dutch oven.
And, in candor,
who can blame the diaspora
as they mill listlessly:
after all,
with the advent of AI
and our devolution into
thin clients:
who isn’t hungry
for more brains?
The goat soap
in garish tissue paper,
the rows of rings
made of cheap silver
and circus glass,
the bogus honey
re-labeled by kitchen chemists:
these Pagan art fairs
were shuttered long ago,
raided in broad daylight
when Chomsky’s
disciples realized that they
could eat their own.
Now and again,
there’s the chattering
of teeth
and whistling
of dead poets
in the branches.
But to say this brave
old world isn’t full of joy
would be shortsighted:
just ask those
goofy-grin raiders
as they nibble
on coffee beans
culled from
an industrial
tilt-up.
Checking my calendar,
I notice the coincidence:
all of this occurs
exactly 70 years
after our first celebration
of earth day.