Cub Fur

The cubs meander
In and out of the den
Like halfway hermits
Never stepping far
From their dank sanctuary
Sniffing and pawing fresh soil
Canvassing the nearby dale
That is the world in their eyes
Starry, strategizing;
Retreating docile
To the comfort of dark
At the slightest wind
of what they deem danger.
In cold nights they bundle
A sprawled heap of limbs,
Knit with heads and paws
Their fur as yet unfrayed,
Swaying with their breath.

This is the first poem I turned into the poetry workshop I'm taking right now. It was vaguely designed to be an inaugural poem for Obama but it doesn't have to be read that way. Take it in the context of someone with very little power speaking to someone with an enormous deal of power.

Our Swords

If we were to slip
On our own swords
Will you be waiting

If we were to dive
In our empty pool
Will you be ten feet under

If we thrash and grope
And choke on our voices
Will you spin me savior

When our dreams turn sour
For the misty moon
Will you too be asleep

Caught in the funnel
Of the buildings you lay
Will you be flying alone

What colors will spring
From the beaming omnibus
the three-ring circus
We call you and I

If you were to help us
If we were to fall
Will we tell the difference

Fate

Fasten your seat belt
For all is lost
We have dreamt our Dreams
And sung our Songs
And none can ward our fate
A simple thing it was
And what remains...
A simple prize
A piece of the puzzle
Not worth a moment of our lives
But advancing yet inside
Another hope bestirs my mind
The fate of all our lovers
The fate of all our friends
Collecting fragments of our fate
Together in this stretch of time
Lost with each other
on the same wild ride

Open All Night
Bruce Springsteen

Well, I had the carburetor, baby, cleaned and checked with her line blown out she's hummin' like a turbojet
Propped her up in the backyard on concrete blocks for a new clutch plate and a new set of shocks
Took her down to the carwash, check the plugs and points
Well, I'm goin' out tonight. I'm gonna rock that joint

Early north Jersey industrial skyline I'm a all-set cobra jet creepin' through the nighttime
Gotta find a gas station, gotta find a payphone this turnpike sure is spooky at night when you're all alone
Gotta hit the gas, baby. I'm running late, this New Jersey in the mornin' like a lunar landscape

Now, the boss don't dig me, so he put me on the nightshift
It's an all night run to get back to where my baby lives
In the wee wee hours your mind gets hazy radio relay towers, won't you lead me to my baby?
Underneath the overpass, trooper hits his party light switch
Goodnight good luck one two power shift

I met Wanda when she was employed behind the counter at route 60 Bob's Big Boy Fried Chicken on the front seat, she's sittin' in my lap
We're wipin' our fingers on a Texaco roadmap
I remember Wanda up on scrap metal hill with them big brown eyes that make your heart stand still

Well, at five a.m., oil pressure's sinkin' fast
I make a pit stop, wipe the windshield, check the gas
Gotta call my baby on the telephone
Let her know that her daddy's comin' on home
Sit tight, little mama, I'm comin' 'round I got three more hours, but I'm coverin' ground

Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations lost souls callin' long distance salvation
Hey, mister deejay, woncha hear my last prayer hey, ho, rock'n'roll, deliver me from nowhere

Oddly enough it is the thing which we fear most that brings us closest to the very essence of life itself. A wolf (any animal really) knows this lesson better than any man or woman ever could. We cower and cry in the shadow of ourselves. I don't deny it. The very letters that I type are personal erected monuments to my own fear, loathing and regret. Death is meaningless beyond our own identity. Life is a state of mind. The imprisoned mockery of persona we display. Who are we to declare ourselves in the presence of something so sharp and so near?

Stupefaction is truly the last bastion the world will posit and therefore possess. "Solace in excess." What other explanation is there for it? What else do we really have to be proud of? Ask us and we will tell you, stupefied or not.
Stupefaction is the key to a life less ordinary. Oddly enough it is also the key to a life less lived.