Monday Monday Monday. A Monday Poem. I know I am a poem behind, so one of these days I’ll post two. But not this Monday. This is a one-poem kind of day. Hp and I are both teaching Cormac McCarthy right now, and we just got into a philosophical debate about whether or not, were we starving, we would eat “a human infant, headless and gutted and blacking on the spit”. It’s also a question I posed to teenagers today, and the consensus was that they would, nearly without remorse, despite already being identified as “the ones who carry the fire”. What?I try so hard to teach them the good stuff.
Goodness. Fine. It was only the prepper in our midst who inspired the teaching in the first place. On The Beach, how’s that for an update, anyhow? That’s posty-fiction, for sure.
I don’t know what I have to spill tonight. I’m thinking, again, about the end of the world, and of babies on spits. Thank you, Cormac. But also, I’m teaching Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, so I’ve got that to poem as well?
I’m also trying to avoid asking questions in tonight’s poem. It seems like I do that a lot. Makes sense, because I have many questions. But, really, how many “what if” poems can one write?
Here’s an answer poem:
Here’s the answer: “because we carry the fire”. What an answer. In the other, just confess, and that’s the answer. Confess and be done with that guilt. Let’s talk about the point you talk about eating off the spit, and in the third curricula we teach of the conquering destiny, we teach it nonchalant, like a matter of course, like it had nothing to do with the sexton or shackle. Or no, we teach with big hearts and peel back the eyes of careless, baby-eating youth.
Here is the answer: because belief. We called it faith. In the old meaning it meant old shame, some heat-knowing of old lessons, and some big lessons on the road. The flute gets tossed out, and no one knows why, except them both.
The answer curls along the darkroads and dark woods, and disappears like footsteps in the ash. He’s given us the answer, and we are the dead prophets seeking still along the road, we carry the fire, so we are the good ones, we are, we are, let’s talk in the firmament again, here we are, so good at last.
Here is the answer: What did you dream, ever, before the fall. Those dreams need to last, like thirst.
Goodnight, poemfriends. I know I’ve written a lot of silly poems, and this Road one might be another, but that’s okay by me. Happy Monday, people of the poem.