Thunderbird Inn

In the lands of mist and fog,

We are grateful for lightning,

We are grateful to exist.

Should we be grateful? To whom?

There is no one here but us.

We’re glad we exist. Say that.

Provisionally, we’re glad.

This would be better than that,

As vague is better than sad.

More sensible than Virgil,

We don’t want to leave Limbo

For the precincts of greater

Wickedness and suffering,

Suffering and redemption,

Not even to give a tour.

Notions like lotos eaters

And thoughts would prefer to rest.

Go be heroic, poet.

Save your people, save the world,

Save your childhood memories.

It’s quiet here. We like it,

Even if we can’t grasp it,

Even if we can’t progress,

Can’t process it, even when

Someone asks, Was there nothing

More than numbers in our view

Of the stars? There was nothing

More than stories, and stories

Are made out of names and names,

And numbers are kinds of names,

And models kinds of stories,

And there’s still nothing much more

Than stories, and it’s only

The stories have much changed,

Somewhat dramatically changed—

Casting, genre, medium,

New martyrs and new villains—

But still stories all the same.

Don’t be tempted by the pit

Dug for sacrificial blood.

If you see Odysseus,

Resist. Sink back in the mist.