XXXIII

There are various important people

Scattered across the world

Like Parra said, “A young man lives in a bell jar

And is concerned with things that only exist for him”

I’m paraphrasing, loosely

Because my guts hurt and I don’t give a hoot

And I’m a mother, given to generalizations;

Mothers are always trying to be good, with soot clogged hearts

It makes me want to hang my head and ride public transportation

Most people know that ideas are horseshit

Those are my friends, the brave actors

And they live half pretending, really just living;

Actors that cross the stage bravely

There are the rest, who don’t get the joke

Too convinced of reality’s legitimacy;

Distressed, unkempt, tottering infants

Stumbling over their guns, shooting just off the mark

But always aiming at the right thing

We reference forgiving souls who testify from mass graves,

The Katyn Massacre, The bottoms of charnal houses, and the Killing Fields,

Who smile gently and look at us from the corners of their eyes,

Blonde boys who died resurrecting their mothers,

Forgiving everything

Talking with my friend the wayfarer

Who sits in the trees above me

And tells me again and again goddamit,

“wish in one hand and shit in the other one

and see which one fills up faster”