Dead Man’s Zen

[pjthompson]

You thought you'd escaped the painful poetry moment for the week, didn't you? I may have also posted this one before, but again I couldn't find it. Probably a while back if I did.


From the notebooks, August 12, 1998:



Dead Man’s Zen

My dead friend wrote in the margin of my book:
“Nothing’s your fault, and you are responsible
for all of it. Maturity.”

The wolf stared at me and I got scared.
I cried, thinking my time was gone,
but time still ticked in my heart.
Time was not my problem.
What to do with time was my problem;
how to use it well, how to be used by it
and not mind so much.

The wolf still stares,
hungry, unapologetic, bluntly assessing
whether my tottering legs can outrun it.

But wolves aren’t only hungry for flesh.
Often it is for honesty:
sifting, weighing, natural selection.
They want authority and submission,
a leader to follow, or a pack to follow them,
arranged alphabetically.
They do not accept excuses,
or acquiesce with lies and self-delusion.
Their gleaming eyes know fraud,
and seek out weakness.
They hamstring the liars,
bring them to the ground
to meticulously devour pretensions.

Nothing’s your fault.
You are responsible for all of it.
Maturity.

Dead man's in his Heaven.
I'm here with the wolves.
Be straight with yourself—
and get to work.

Comments

[buymeaclue.livejournal.com]

Oh. Wow. I like that.

Thank you.

[pjthompson]

Thank you. :-)