Sitting in the Lap of Shiva

I hardly remember

What it was like

Before it was

What it is

Before what was

Was forgotten

Before we named

That which being named

Within the dug out



The realm of truth


Like the string

Or the apple

Heard, tasted, eaten

Thoroughly enjoyed

Before being digested

And put back on the shelf

Or wadded up and thrown

Away with all the other

Things we daily divest/ingest,

Process and make part of ourselves

Integrating hypocrisy with righteousness

On deck in the batter’s box of the big game

We heartily step up the sarcasm, jeering our opponents

Then in the seventh

At the plate of truth

Bases loaded

By conjecture’s softball pitch

Three on, two outs

Profundity falls prey to intellectualism

In a slow, high arc toward a dead drop

Strike one

Salivating for the homerun hit

We curse the dirt and spit

Strike two

Proselytizing into foul territory

We choke up on the altered bat of renunciation

Coach signals a secret mudra

The sacrificial bunt

All roads

To that greatest of destroyers

Aye, batter,batter,batter,batter,batter,batter,batter

Aye, battah, battah, battah, battah, battah, battah

Nobattah, nobattah, nobattaaahhh


Make my day