“As soon as he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, made clay of the spittle,
and anointed the eyes of the blind with the clay,”
As happens some mornings, words take control; familiar, whimsical, entitled. Perhaps in another life, I was a rapper, an erstwhile prophet flinging ribbons of rhymes, taunting derelict deities with their shady designs. This is an appealing possibility. I consult with the Coauthor:
“Hey, is there any chance I was ever…”
“No.”
“But sometimes, I see a fragment of you in the swirl…”
“You cannot contain me in words. I’m not a Poem.”
“But you are a fragment.”
“Or a figment, a pigment, a glimmer of hope.”
“See? You can’t help yourself, can you?”
My Coauthor blushes, caught in the act of being.
We laugh at this gaffe. And we write.
Spit on the Ground
If you’re being kidnapped or murdered
you should spit on the ground
to help the police know who they’ve found
if they find you.
And with the time you have left,
let your DNA shine. Leave something sublime behind.
Joy, rich soil, saliva, or stone.
What is the blink of an eye if you’re blind?
Let colors erupt in your mind.
Mud and Muse.
Ocean and bruise. Pay your dues.
Be here or be gone.
If you want to be found, spit on the ground.
It may all come down to that spit on the ground,
the migration of nouns to verbs, wingless birds, hollow bones.
All that’s unknown in our tender years
hides in our genes, unseen.
waiting for subtle expression
or release from repression.
Ready to blast into being.
If They knock and come in, look around.
The thinnest of lines grow wider with time,
and you’ll know the true cost of that spit on the ground.
It’s the only way anyone is ever found.
“But do you?” the Coauthor asks quietly.
“Do I what?”
“Know the true cost of that spit on the ground?”
“No. I do not,” I admit with some shame.
“That’s what I thought. I’m not a Poem, but I do know your name.”
I rally and grin. “You know that’s not true, but what’s there to do?”
The Coauthor sighs. “Here’s my advice. Take time to be nice. The larger the act, the higher the price. Sometimes it will even cost you your life.
“Um, I don’t like the sound of that pitch,” I said.
The Coauthor nods. “Sorry my dear, but as good poets know, editing’s a bitch.”
Ah yes. The Edit.
And the Eternal Question: Who gets the credit?
Your head adorned, or your head on a platter.
In the end, I promise, these things will not matter.
