Tonight a blood moon will rise.
This isn’t about lycanthropy
although the moon will have
the fullness that metamorphosis demands.
The sky will be clouded
the now crimson moon,
the planet that wears the palette
as its nature
will lurk out of sight
and we, lost in dreams,
will imagine what our eyes
are unable to see.
He crouched in the hollow
in the ancient cliff
careful not to disturb
the bones scattered
just in the shadows behind.
He waited patiently
until he heard the sweep
of the great wings
and the mighty bird
alighted on its nest.
He reached out quickly
and plucked two feathers
never more, and pulled back
into the shadows
of his ancestors.
He carried the feathers
bound with a leather strap
close to his heart
to ward off the evil
that swept down
off the Wyoming plains
licking at the Wind River.
He grew old, his once
black hair streaked in gray
and he knew his time
was coming, it would be
a good day to die,
the sun high over
the mountains, his feathers
ready to carry his spirit
to the sky people
to return to the mighty eagle
from whom he had
accepted life.
Consider, for a moment
he said
the absurdity of it all
a guy with brains enough
to shape universes
who can flick on stars
with a thought
faster than you or I
can throw a switch who,
worst case
gives a lizard a kick in the ass
and ends up with man
that a guy
with this kind of power
is going to write his story down
on a bunch
of tablets
or have an old coot
wander the desert endlessly
pen and parchment in hand
taking dictation
and then leave the scrolls
scattered in caves
it makes no freakin’ sense.
If it was me
he said
standing on a hill
watching some scrub pine
slowly burn onward
no ashes, no embers
just keeps on burning
and if I heard a voice
giving me orders
when I couldn’t see anyone
to go and slap
some soldier
upside the head
or march into a river hoping
to find the stones
followed by miles
of lemmings lined up
behind me
not this kid
me, I’d look for a screen
and some short professor
from somewhere
in Kansas.
Do you buy for a minute
he said
that he would wander
sucking sand from his navel
and getting called
to haul his ass up a mountain
for a crisis meeting
and then have
to schlep tablets down the hill
eating hardtack
and pretending to like it
then telling his wife
he knew where he was
he wasn’t lost
so what if it was forty years
Miriam was
really going to buy that
and Aaron
had to be
thrilled
dragging the damn ark
like a bloody albatross
then looking down
into the valley
he’s gonna say
okay, that’s it
go on without me
I just got word
I gotta croak here
but keep a kind thought,
fat chance of that ever happening.
Across the river
running limpid as mercury
the sky is gun-metal gray
and many stand
in the windows
of their small apartments
and stare at buildings
sitting like mausolea.
On this side of the river
running limpid as mercury
the sky is gun-metal gray
and many stand
in the windows
of their small apartments
and stare at buildings
sitting like mausolea.
Tomorrow across the river
the sky will be blue
and a cold sun will shine
and the river
will swallow its reflection.
Tomorrow on this side of the river
the sky will be blue
and a cold sun will shine
and the river
will swallow its reflection.
As you search for the source
of all wisdom, will you stop
along a beach and consider
that it can be found, fully
in a single grain of sand.
Be careful, for the beach
contains countless grains
of sand, so choose carefully.
If you are uncertain which one
contains the source of all wisdom
select one at random
and it will be the correct
bearer of wisdom, but only
if you look deeply within it,
and then cast it back
onto the beach, carried
on the gentle morning breeze.
He is certain that there is
that single moment when it will be
exactly the right time for it.
There must be such a moment, for it
will not happen until that instant arrives
and he knows it must be arriving soon.
He isn’t sure how he will know
when the moment arrives, just that
it will signal itself, somehow
and he will know with enough warning
that it will happen on schedule.
Until then, he will sit, patiently
on the mat, staring at the wall
and imagining what samadhi
will feel like when it comes.
He captured the stray beams of light
in a small amber bottle
and tucked it into a dark corner
of a shelf in his basement.
He canned a small bit of the sky,
sealed it carefully, placing it
in his pantry, for posterity.
He stored his collection of dawns
in and old cedar chest in the attic
amid moth-eaten blankets.
He had a bookshelf
of genomes, arranged alphabetically
next to Mason jars filled
with the ashes of victims
of each of the genocides
of the last five centuries.
It was the Greek amphora
perched on the mantle
that he most prized,
waiting for the day
when he could look
within it
and bid good morning
to his soul.
