A Box a Bundle a Triptych of Poems

A Box a Bundle a Triptych of Poems

Slouching Closer to First Sins

 

She sat on a universal
A universal space and time
Not of her making

It was hers by right
And everyone knew it

Many decades later
Some would call this
Into question

Timidly

Decades after that
Aggressively and with anger

They would question the universal
Itself

They would question the idea
That anyone can really see anything
From anywhere

Without all but nullifying
What they see

Because
Motives

Because
Privilege

Because
The stain of being human

But she was dead
Long dead
And laughed six feet under

 

 

The Ghost in the Mirror

 

The judgment of Paris
Or Detroit
Or Dubai
Is hubris in search of

The tauntingly absurd
In search of
The stunningly tone deaf

As in
The most human thing in the world

We are forever belated
And that endears us to the gods

They
Just like the dead
The woman from before
The one six feet under

Know this feel this smell this
In all encounters
With a Sapien’s vision of itself
Its vain preoccupations served up

On ice-cold platters

We struggle for acceptance
Based on ideals so new
So precarious
So devoid of sustainability

The winds howl with derision
And call us fickle

I want to find a pre-Freudian
Post-conscious
Enclave garden jungle bridge
Where no one has seen us

Secure against further partitions
En solidarité march on!!

 

 

The New Romanticism

 

There was a sparkle in his eye
As he saw the light in hers

It went back and forth
That light that fire

As if the two Sapiens
Had erected light beam sculptures

To share
To connect

To bridge all differences
Eye to eye

Heart to heart
Forty years soon enough

Just in time
Serendipitous

More or less

Usually and mostly always
We do this kind of thing

When it’s far too late
To matter

Or we do this kind of thing
Without noticing what we’ve done

Under cover so to speak
Behind doors closed to us

To our belabored readings
Of ourselves

Shut off
Separated by some fear some thing

We can’t see
Like the flower in the trash

The laughing child
On the playground two streets over

The whiff of five star meals
From the corner dive

There was magic between them
And they missed it

Or

There was magic between them
And they found it

Or

There is no such thing
And they jumped on the nothing

That is
The fiction that isn’t

Which is what Sapiens are best at

Missing things right under our noses
Inventing things that couldn’t exist

Without the right spark
Between I and thou

 

 

—by Douglas Pinson

 

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