The Role of a Lifetime

What is that sense, exactly,
Of pride in doing the right—
Not even pride, exactly—

Something like remonstrating
With yourself, something like faith
That the right will be noticed—

Like faith, in that, like all faith,
It can never be certain,
Only felt very strongly—

That this is what should do
And therefore you will do it,
As if someone’s watching you—

And the awareness of spies,
Cameras, gods, and gossip,
Certainly, is part of it,

But not all. Identity,
Also, the reinforcement
Of the self, is part of it,

But not all. Set aside Kant
And moral imperatives,
Too—a small part, but not all.

A moral script’s still a script,
A template, a heuristic.
You sense that you play your part,

And you take comfort in it,
Some satisfaction, only
Since you like to have some role.

If You Go There, You Will Be Lost

The day yawns like a housecat
Stretching itself in the sun,
And you float like a dust mote,

Accidentally twirling
Lazily into its mouth.
This was not the day you planned,

Not the option you foresaw,
To be swallowed by duty,
Captive, not to boredom, but

To the boredom of others,
You, responsible person,
Brimming with your foreboding

That, for you the day is gone,
Since only you count the cost.

They Made It Home

The intensest joy
Must be preceded
By anxiety,
Must include relief.

There’s no happiness,
Nothing so giddy,
Like the swift release
Of fear for the worst.

You know what this means.
You have to feel fear,
Authentic belief
In the terrible,

To feel the pure joy
That transcends belief.

Lifeboat

Unless the universe were
Undifferentiated,
A single block of something,

Repetition will require
Alternation, which requires
Difference, which means two things

At a minimum, which means
Change, the same, change, the same, change.
Past that, just variation

On the same theme of changing
Between—more repetition,
More alternation. Waves lap

In every direction,
With variety being
When alternations alter.

Meanwhile, entropy rises,
But it’s got so far to go,
And there’ll be no one to know

They’re so much as getting close.
For you it’s just waves and boat
So long as rhythm floats you.

Ostraca Poetica

Very normal people
With very normal lives,
Struggling with jobs, food, kids,

Even their marriages,
Noted on pottery—
That’s one way to reread

The historical past.
Prospectively, the same
Shards of crockery style

Could be left here and there
For the future to find.
That’s how you find futures,

Written or otherwise—
You imagine the past
You’ve been scrutinizing

And take one piece of it—
Say, what you’ve been writing—
Overlay some other,

Much older scraps with that—
Say, codices, ruins,
Buried scrolls, ostraca—

And imagine them found
By some future scholar,
Your words on old fragments.

It’s very appealing,
But let’s face it, that past,
Then, won’t be like this past.

A Legacy and a Commonplace

The old art—the old, old art
That the cautious hate to call
Art, since, you know, that’s modern,

And shouldn’t apply to old,
Old, old drawings and carvings
Made by premodern people,

Who didn’t have the concept,
As if that’s a certainty—
Stays strange. And so, so human.

Other animals mark turf,
Make rich communications,
But who else tries symbolic

Representation, and what
Human population won’t?
The scratched lines showing canoes,

Longboats, spear-hunting parties,
The elaborate creatures
In ochre smears, the abstract

Spirals, triangles, and dots
Suggestive of calendars—
You see them and you know them

As meaningful to someone,
Whether you know what they meant
Or, much more probably, don’t.

Art is meaning’s debitage,
Or meaning’s hearth, the symbols
Meaning’s children and toolbox,

Those signs that mean, long after
Everyone’s forgotten what
They meant, that meaning was meant.

Just Just

Unlike matter or magic,
Which, despite persistent claims,
Are no respecters of faith,

Causes really do depend
On those who truly believe.
However good or wicked

Outsiders might find a cause,
It must be fueled by belief
In its righteousness to flare.

Causes have no other fuel,
Regardless of the reasons
Confected from convictions.

The white-hot fire of a cause,
No matter how terribly
Hypocritical it gets,

No matter how destructive,
Comes from its followers’ faith
That it and they are righteous.