In polite society we hold doors open,
say thanks and please, wear crisp
suits when we drop bombs.
In polite society we always greet
Blacks and Latinos and Native peoples,
smile as we strip them of their rights.
In polite society we wear bright jewels
mined by slaves, decry slavery,
tip generously.
In polite society we destroy the Earth
to make us rich, create jobs
that pay the poor to be poor.
And in polite society
we are never rude, never mean—
we murder democratically.
Ages ago I kept a diary in a hand legible to
none but me. I read it on my knees as just-fallen
rain clings to pinecones like wet feathers,
the evening slips into its velvet gown,
and starlight pitter-patters on my head
like drops of gallium. I am thankful
the day is dying, for I have forgotten how
to live. Who wrote those words belongs
to an empire that collapsed under its
own grandiose weight, its high priest
I was seventeen when I read Alan Watts’ The Way of Zen
a couple pages at a time, putting down the book to observe
sunset drape itself over my mind, falling asleep thinking
of not thinking, hearing a flock of birds and imagining myself
flapping against the sky and recalling that I am sky. Once,
the book well-thumbed and creased and read twice over,
I felt an ant crawl the length of my arm like a nagging
sense that
I am a foul weather friend, dear poetry.
I have paid you no mind when spring rains
wash clean the marble statues of gods
and a cheery sun
reads aloud your sweet inscriptions,
nor when awed children skip through museums,
nor accordion-song fills the subway,
nor a stranger does another stranger
a kindness,
nor blueberries are so ripe they bleed sugar,
nor velvet chocolate cake knocks you dizzy with love,
nor, after making love, my wife’s perfume
clings
