In the hills
that rise gently
from the concrete valley
two hawks play
childlike, rising, falling
in gentle circles,
grazing the redwoods
that reach up
to stroke their breasts.
To a visitor
from the East
New York, Tokyo
there is awe
at the hawks’ grace,
slicing the sky
into cloudy ribbons
but there is no
wonder in the eyes
of the field mouse
and squirrel, only
the flapping
of the executioner’s blade
and the deep eyes of death.
Stand on the hill
and look into the valley.
Stand in the valley
and look upon the hill.
Do you see yourself
in either place, do you
see yourself in both
or are they one place
hidden from your vision.
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.
Good night, Sisyphus
try to get some sleep.
It’s been a long day
and you already know
the rock will await you
when you arise in the morning.
I suppose by now
you’ve come to realize
there is no percentage
in pissing off the Gods.
Think of this as a personal
re-education center
where right thinking
is the lesson of this
and every other day.
Did you really think
they would let you stand
in the middle of the Square
openly mocking
all of their edicts.
Sleep old fellow,
we have all the time
in the world, it is
one of the benefits
of immortality.
Atop the hill
the trees are filigree
against the fading light.
The tents are fireflies
twinkling as night
reclaims the earth.
I am caught up
in the chill
watching my breath
kiss the stars.
Tomorrow the morning
will arrive as it always does,
eating the last vestiges
of night, painting the sky
in puce and crimson.
It will foretell the rain
that will carry our dreams
down the hill
and into storm sewers,
eventually to wash into the lake.
But in that moment
when the sky is ablaze,
none of that matters,
save the beauty of dawn.
We lie on a hill
side by side, staring
up at the passing clouds,
discerning shapes, both
of us break into a smile,
each of us sees
a completely different sky.
After some time
I reach out and touch
her hand, our fingers
interlace, or perhaps
it is she who reached
out to me, fingers intertwined.
It doesn’t really matter
for once our hands
are joined we each smile
and stare upward and each
of us sees a different sky.
