For December 6, 2020
Why should a day, deep in Autumn embrace,
blue beneath the disparate sugar pine,
cottonwood, Joshua tree not really
“tree” but a cacti of Lincoln’s stature
Why should soft breezes ardently caress
paradise with hospitable mirage
brethren firstborn in enmity, each one
the sign of hail, of cold, and of the sun
Why should I not mark the cardinal points
draw down the protective spirits and cast
aground, offer up sweet wine and flowers
to walking under the pine, whispering
the dry cottonwood leaves provocative
humwichawa under half-moon at day
For December 5, 2020
Another still, crisp morning, the clouds thin upon the hidden horizon, and glance evenly the mountains rising into thin air. Santa Anas rage below these quiet mountains, casting a pall over the desert like a scaring guest we never invited. Our words, early frustrations of tradition and centenary embellishment, leaves us mad.
A cabal, a race, a stone worn ‘round the neck drags across the morning television story and the psychofantic Prosperos call up the tempests while unbeknownst Sycorax calls the shot. Another lie is spoken, another cry echoes unheard, and all that can be done is done as we stand around the box of mesmerize, having done our duty as useful ghosts. Shades that can only hold a moment before deeper shadow steals it from us, and we are left, looking backward, and reproach each other at how we could have held it longer.
I wonder at it all; the morning, the mountains, hot winds blowing thin wisps of cloud-like raiment over the hole-and-corner where our personal wealth, our souls, were taken and hidden in plain sight from us while we worshipped blind virtue in the name of Themis. Fools we were, more foolish we are in the thought justice is served by rapine. So be happy, you other fools, in this; that you have served nothing in your priggish deceit, and you remain useful ghosts of the powerful.
eggnogsandeclogues 
Leave a comment