A Round Poem

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we hear you plugging bullet holes
with saccharine words
and preposterous fables.
that sticky resinous tar resonates
with the wrong souls
but consoles
no one.

I get even with you
for getting even with me
and vice versa,
and conversely,
in reverse–or the Other–
way around.

that’s what i’ve found–
it’s always a round,
circular argument,
but even when I spurn you–
you’re still part of me.

holy spirit, Human,
even the trees cast your shape
in their shadows.
there is death in life
but there is life in death too.

the cricket is the critic
that thinks about us
and talks about us too.
a prophet, an oracle
of change in formation
and occasional damnation–

with chances of intermitant salvation

whether it’s weather or climate is immaterial.
it’s inclement. it’s perilous too.
it’s the substantiation of hate that has ramifications
through the objectification and personalization
of the execution, the decimation, the extinction
of all mortal clay

because of our differences and strife.

here’s the historical metaphor:
an explorer soars through the door,
the portal of transmission
and metamorphosis,
a mission of transition
of pure sound and light

to charged particles
swelling, surging

…waving through the night…

to grow bold and grow bolder,
to care for and protect
one another–

or to smoke, to smolder–
sharp edges serrated,
refined, and colder

to the touch.
it’s the hate–
it’s the hate
that violates