The Whole Damn Works up There

These lines wove a mat, a raft,
That then broke off in the waves

To float free from a large world,
A rich world of far more lives

Than you see here in one place.
Not a life-boat or space-ship,

Not an ark with well picked-out
Pairs and clear culls to catch all

The full range from home writ small,
This mat is wrack, like the trash

Ring that spins waste in the sea,
Like the spray of weeds torn off

From the coast by a great storm
And mixed with what washed down streams

And what the tides brought back up.
It’s a mess, but it floats free.

Should it reach a plug of stone
Kicked up from the core, half-cooled,

It might wash up on that shore
And hold fast, a torn, green glop

Of words and minds, some of which
Could crawl off and find new life,

Birth new lines, new kinds. That spit
Of raw land could have its own,

One day—things that came to be
Right there on the once bare stones.

Guts

As in tough, as in go
With your gut, as in go
On a hunch. Life’s a mess.

It has to be. You guess
What’s good, and you guess well,
Most times, and you go on.

At some points, you guess wrong,
And at some point, you don’t
Get to go on. It takes

Guts to get this far, guts
You got from those went
On, then got gone, long since.

Praise who you want. Some praised
Get to go on, some won’t.
Guts take guts. Praise, blame don’t.

Make

Life through craft. At best, not quite
Life. At worst, life. Earth, clay, mud,

Dust, bone, tears, blood. Shapes and sparks,
Blown wind, breathed fire, waved wands, spells—

We name the tools, the means, force,
But the tale comes back to haunt

You the same way each time—how
Could you see a way to make

A kind of life with your grace,
Your breath, your pulse, and your ache

To be more that would not be
Just as much of a sad mess,

Prone to kill, to cry, to seek
A war on such gods as it

Could blame things turned out like this?
Words hide the myth words live this.