IF

If he knew he’d be dead by dark

Tolstoy supposedly said he’d keep

plowing which proves either

he really liked to plow or else

he was a bit off that day and I think

it must be the latter because

no sane man likes to plow that much

unless you mean the metaphorical

kind (haha) but Ell Tee was way too

uptight for that sort of thing and

not that imaginative but if

I were cursed with such knowledge

I’d find a hot metaphor and have a

wild time and get a revolver to

defend myself in case I’m slated

to die at the hands of a jealous

lover whose girlfriend I haven’t even

slept with and I know I’d probably

end up being shot with my own

weapon because as the Greeks figured

out a long time ago that’s how

these things usually end since

nobody escapes irony but still I say

it’s best to go down fighting or

polishing your weapon or being

metaphorical or doing anything

that counts as honest rebellion.

Eve

Everyone assumes

she’d never eaten the fruit

before she made the mistake

of sharing some with that dimwit

Adam, who of course confessed, babbled

like a frightened child

the first time God looked crosswise

at him. Actually, she’d been snatching

bites here and there for years.

Neither God nor Adam had been observant

enough to notice the extra lightness

in her step, the little smiles for no

particular reason, the way she laughed

as if their dry jokes were funny

or how she sat entranced by the wings

of the dragonfly, as if each beat were a reprise

of her heart, a count of the minutes, hours, days

until the making of a cocoon

or perhaps the breaking of one.

This poem was published by The Pinch at the University of Memphis

Here's what happens when a preacher's kid goes to college and realizes there's more to the story than what he learned in Sunday Schools (or Sabbath Schools):

Hurricane prayer

When God planned the universes,

he said I’ll make this one big

and put tiny things in it.

They’ll feel lost, and worship me.

But someone pointed out

they might just as easily resent

being made so much smaller than the universe

and thus worship it instead.

So then he put tiny little universes

in all the black holes to see

who they would worship. But since

the black holes were singularities,

nothing went as planned in any of them,

not even responses to commandments

and threats. Then God had to pin

all his hopes on the big one

where butterflies and dark matter were

in equilibrium with chaos and hurricanes.

Everything was still and quiet in the eyes

of the hurricanes, which fascinated him so.

He sent them again and again, skipping

them like stones against the continents

where they always sputtered and died.

While they lasted they reminded him

of the black holes, spinning, glittering,

so strange and calm inside. Then, too,

there was the tinny sound of little voices

praying hardest when the hurricanes struck–

they were not worshiping, exactly,

but it was the closest thing to worship

he had heard, and

it would have to do for now.

Machiavellian . . .

I wrote this poem years ago, when I was considerably poorer than I am now. These days, I have hung around on the periphery of civilization long enough to feel some sympathy for schmucks like me who have invested in The Way Things Are.

Machiavellian

The young can sometimes afford

to complain, but not to bribe the powerful.

To get money to bribe anybody important

you must first invest heavily

in the way things are.

Subversion therefore becomes unprofitable.

If things change, your investments

may not pay.

The young are not taught this

in the government schools:

Methods in Bribery is a unit of instruction

not covered by the new standardized tests.

Warrior

There are a thousand ways

to be a warrior.

I have won battles

by sitting in my chair

whole afternoons and counting to one.

On good days

I count to zero:

Zen in the art of arithmetic.

(Pub'd in Red Wheelbarrow)