Once, a while ago, when the rhythm took me,
(sorry, sorry, sorry,
lo siento, mea culpa;
have you seen all the ways
we learn to apologize
for being alive?)
it was Los Lobos,
and it was Spring,
and I was in the kitchen,
and I was told to stop screwing off.
The next day, I drove past a graveyard.
Most days now,
I’m guilty of screwing off.
(especially where rhythm is concerned)
Lo siento.
In case you ever again enter
the winter of forgotten things,
listen-
You are of the transcendent.
You are of the wild and hopeful,
of the beautiful and terrifying Light.
You are of the rising storm.
You are of the running herd,
and hawk on the wing,
and fin cutting the waves,
and the pack-howl at night.
You are cloaked in honor,
you are of the ardent-hearted,
and the sword and the plough
and of the green, growing things.
You speak for those who have no voice.
You are worthy, and I am worthy,
and every single thing is worthy,
and it was deemed so
in the forges of fading suns
containing every single atom
of yourself
and myself,
aeons ago.
In case you ever forget-
are you listening?
She was sitting on the couch,
dying.
Well, not really dying, per se.
She was staring out the window
at the darkness fallen across the land.
“I hate winter.”
She shivered, even with the blanket.
The dog wandered over,
hopped up,
sat down next to her.
Opened its jaws, grinning.
{Hey.}
“What.”
{Know what I like about winter?}
“What’s that.”
{Spring’s just around the corner.}
She sighed.
“I suppose.”
She stared out the window again.
{Hey.}
“Yeah?”
{Let’s go run around and eat snow.}
She raised her eyebrow.
The dog raised one back.
{Please?}
“OK. Come on.”
{Cool. I’ll wait for you at the door.}
She grabbed her coat.
{Oh. My. God.}
“What now?”
{A small piece of bacon on the floor.
See! Like I told you
when I woke you this morning!
Best day ever!}
Passion is a discontinued brand.
Yes?
Can you give me some agreement on a Saturday night?
Can I get an AMEN from the front row,
and possibly a HALLELUJAH from the back?
Say you all so?
Now goddamn stand and speak, the lot of you.
Stand, and be counted, and hold thyself not a hypocrite,
for you wander not in the land of Sodom or Gomorrah;
you are made of flame and pulse and must break yourself
on the rocks of the liquid shore.
Cry foul,
cry pardon,
cut loose,
cut low;
let slip the dog days of summer
out the still winter of thine own blood,
for you are always treading the plains of milk and honey;
and I have seen the future ripe, and full,
and for what you want,
I say surely you shall not perish,
but rise,
rise in shaking ecstasy at the light of dawn.
Now goddamn stand and speak.
Litany_of_the_Lost 