So smooth, so ever-abiding, hits the pocket
Every time; he makes the basket, finds the hole,
And never loses face. He’s always first to leave. Nothing’s slow
So nothing sags or lags, nor is his neo-light in question. No sockets
Left unplugged, it’s true, but never there on time
He never feeds the meter down the line.
Talisman itself, icon, the behemoth never needs to look for signs.
He never walks when he can ride, does not drive when he can fly.
His speech is writ; his name’s his habeas corpus and he’s booked
His morphemes long ago. If his recipes were ever really known, he’s there
At pond each day because he does not travel far, has no need to stand and stare
In disbelief. He’s got it made, he seeks no shade; the man is hooked
In both these worlds, you see, and if there’s any hacking
In the phrase with nothing in the metaphor he simply states he’s backing
Many points of reference here, “And you can place me east of Edom,
Ma’am and tell me who I am today and where I’ll be when all will end.
What statues, then, what silk route to the East defends
The past, what Zephyrs offer less per pound than bedlam
There for plucking? There, because it’s there for tasting;
There to be admired and where inflated sires hesitate, there is a fire
In the valley waiting down below. “Pick up the pen,” he says, the song
And chorus speechless.“Wounded Knee and Plymouth Rock are pacing,
Praying, supplicating even now, and what may not be said? Where
From here, and what remains? What’s left to leave out in the rain?“
…Where’s profit here, where the justice, whom shall we defame?…”
“The road’s not long and we’ve so little time to pay the fare.”
“Time, my friend? You have your meme and meaning, you…”
“…If not narration, then, I have my point of view.”