Where’s our adventure?
Our war? Our challenge?
Do we wander job to job?
Our purpose is consume?
I am being used, and wouldn’t have it any other way.
I didn’t choose it. But I am static.
Comfort keeps me docile, keeps me content,
with a circular life and square jawed dreams.
We read, only to say that we did. We poison,
only to get where we’re going.
The generation trying to save us is the one that condemned us.
We keep throwing blame, and they keep catching it.
But quiet. The television is on…
Off to dig a hole that is deep and wide,
enough to bury three and a half foot of railroad tie,
to hang warped, ripped, busted cattle fence against,
to trellis not yet purchased baby grape vines.
Not a branch, a pole, a shovelful of it is mine.
Not even the seconds bloomed minutes written leaves hours.
At work toward a harvest you will never taste is grace.
And grace is building trellises for another person’s grapes.
Do not write about the scar on the back of your hand.
They would not understand. You stoned,
rolling corn in the oven, sat there on a coil
long enough to smile up at you while
you write for the rest of your life.
Right handed and it means far more than pen to paper.
The ears through which you hear planted kernels last year,
just listening. Cellulose between your teeth. No butter.
Better dryer and raw. Right off of the stalk.
Do not get lost writing on corn.
Or on scars earned cooking it for dinner.
When you could write about this winter.
Or imagine all the scars to come.