Tuesday, August 9, 2016

For St. Nich.

I know a man
named Nick
who deserves a simple poem written for him and
it goes like this.
The big blue empyrean,
the canopy of dreams overhead,
the canvas on which all
human wonder and distraction and hope
is colored by clouds
and their silvery mad groping intestines
of silver, blue, and those values in between, which we labor to annunciate and label,
this is our blessing and our redemption.
Always there for us.

As bold glorious monkeys, it is our birthright.
i know Nick and i
in our separate, distant
unanthropological ways
do gaze up at it,
our heads inclined towards theoretical happiness
and proofs contrary to heavy concrete life down here,
we give thanks and
for the spectacle and substance of it,
shower generosities
and good will upon others.
It's for the relaxed godliness of the unknown and unknowable sky
that we behave as we do,
with sincerity, and sass, and kindness.
With an effort to reach the mystery of us and
gentle readers everywhere.
Meanwhile my coworker
directs an infinite series of digital,
miniature tanks and canons, against other well-mean
Ing citizens, amen.
The mobile wargame of life.
Thank you, Nich.

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