04-20-2018, 06:41 AM
The Absolute Truth of the World
The road is gray, and the sky is gray,
and though we live, above and beneath
this canopied bridge of gray, we still expect
our world to explode in color. We travel
to the point of the horizon where mountains flatten,
and assume that rainbows reveal treasure,
and that we’re going somewhere—not
a joke waiting for a punchline,
like the chicken tense by the side of a road.
It can smell the exhaust, and see distracted
drivers on their cell phones, looking away
to change radio stations. The chicken should wait
for a gap, but the destination is more important
than the steps. It surges into traffic and traffic surges
toward the chicken in a diabolic dance
of a retro videogame. It jumps left, right,
but never forward as if enclosed by a ring.
Its need to cross is the lust of the lottery ticket,
and the end of steps with no regard
for mortality while the prize waits.
The road is gray, and the sky is gray,
and though we live, above and beneath
this canopied bridge of gray, we still expect
our world to explode in color. We travel
to the point of the horizon where mountains flatten,
and assume that rainbows reveal treasure,
and that we’re going somewhere—not
a joke waiting for a punchline,
like the chicken tense by the side of a road.
It can smell the exhaust, and see distracted
drivers on their cell phones, looking away
to change radio stations. The chicken should wait
for a gap, but the destination is more important
than the steps. It surges into traffic and traffic surges
toward the chicken in a diabolic dance
of a retro videogame. It jumps left, right,
but never forward as if enclosed by a ring.
Its need to cross is the lust of the lottery ticket,
and the end of steps with no regard
for mortality while the prize waits.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson