pigs

Never to hold
what can be but to reach with fingers
stretching, straight
the shortest distance fails
Points to nobs to fists un-
angry
Soon returning
leaving nothing but a dream
coming home to the unwelcome

We are not grateful
This is not privilege
Again! Again! Again!
Discovering the width of limbs
One cannot first measure,
then assure,
then grasp
with knowing
Knowing is a lovely lie
Truth discovered is Truth preceded by Truth
A chuckled delusion laughing
at conclusions without premises

Only those who see what isn’t
can reveal what is
You laugh at him, yet he is the future
and he laughs at the future
But you are a farce
without ambition
A satire

From the Heavens
rope untethered falls until it settles
then it slithers
nowhere, but proves useful
tying down
tethered now to man

The Word is a river
the Image its reflection
and Identity a pig
like cliché, wallowing
in its own filth

This is a poem I wrote today after reading several pieces on the decline of the humanities in favor of more curriculum on gender, race, and class, and how this relates, or is at least a similar phenomenon, to poetry becoming a tool for the expression of the self rather than a lens into the universal.

It has two meanings which relate to this last point: essentially, a literal one and a humorous one. Can you guess what they are? (Hint: read once with somber tone, then again with a smile and some arrogance!).

As always, I would appreciate hearing your thoughts on the work’s form, message, sound, imagery, double-entendre, and so on.

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