Ode to a Boy, and Railroad Tracks
Worshipping the abandoned
[ he makes ceremony at railroad tracks ]
And partly into sublimation
[ he understands political economy too well ]
Would sprawl, thereupon, a public work
And sing loud words there, out of tune
Imposing himself on the order and predictive
[ he is not as stupid as he acts ]
This luminous savage, this John,
Pretending amazement at this sad, old world
While planning somewhere more brave and new
[ would sing with spirits in mourning, be lured, and
fall for tricks, and serve with smiles to prove
himself to power ]
He is lectured in a crisis and told what he thinks
[ he is godless but identifies with saints more than
bosses ]
[ wears only black, seductive ]
He seizes his agency, he thrusts it like an elbow into
the air at a challenge, tone barbed and calculated
[ he understands propaganda ]
He is well read but coarse
[ calculated ]
Does not make pretense -
He knows what he is doing
[ he understands power, too well ]
[ makes gestures at what he knows to be true, above
him ]
Nothing except in context
[ the truth of things is in the greyscales ]
Walk with him on the railroad tracks
[ it’s not dangerous ]
[ the trains don’t run here anymore ]
His hand is rough.
You wonder if he keeps it that way.
You feel like you’re not alone here with him
[ but in a way that’s a comfort ]
[ You don’t want to be alone with him ]
Pays you attention, this one
And you don’t trust that
[ would sprawl in public, rudely ]
[ would sing, off-key ]
He of the trenchcoat warriorhood,
The Militant Avant-Garde
[ the scimitar, the rose, the gun and the hands that
sculpt timeless trunks withstanding
forgetment ]
In desert sands, bare and wasted,
Illegible warnings in ancient tongues carved
At ancient opportunities.
[ wind is harsh here ]
So, no more of this naïve amazement
You are not a child
[ strident, untamed ]
Before any God or Gods
And neither is he a child
[ his fertile wings, his near-feminine countenance,
waif-like, thin, and dusty ]
That is neither excuse for either of you
Nor chain -
No more.
[ and whispers in some dialect, he’d be better off back
home, if only the trains still ran here, he’d
hop one ]
He makes you sad, this one
Don’t fall for this.
[ would sprawl, elbows lazy, reflecting on the
universe as it surrounds him, his thoughts his only
reality ]
[ would have to will himself to power to corrupt and
is too lazy and too stupid by his own
deceitful admission ]
This wisdom of his determined ignorance
When so much of so called common knowledge is lies
And with readiness to launch, sometimes, into
Impromptu ceremony, to keep alive
The spontaneity of spirit that transplanted his
ancestry
[ theatrical, maybe, performative, definitely, but at
our age that’s hardly a crime ]
Young and enthused with ideas
But this isn’t your first round
There are better outcomes than this
[ these
branched chains of possibilities ]
[ would sprawl, his truth between obscurities ]
[ and froth at opportunity ]
[ and deny it ]
These tracks mean something to him