well, then, toward where do you stare
when the sour wind beats upon your breast
to shake you
stir what's weak in the worn frame of "genuity"
without the "in"
without the standbys, the make-up
we pretend to have when standing straight
without fault or sin
or any human broken-self within

ah! what a mess we transport like graves
even before death ever caulks us in our tombs

i wonder
staring toward the forever long forever
why we play our foolish games
pretending to be masters of the fractured world
gods of the universe dancing with death
when many cry, waiting for some seasonal grace
for a touch of light
to smash the darkness known so well
yet sick

o, to have an eye wide enough to see
grasp the momentary grace gliding past our face
spilling tears
heating hearts
pushing feet to walk a moment ahead
feeling the breath of God slide where we stand


*The West is the third world of the spirit.  Its sadness can't be fathomed; it's the sadness of those who are separated from themselves, insatiable.  The poverty and destitution of the third world still leaves room for fraternity in collective agony.  In the West agony is individual.  Old and young, sick and handicapped - all are placed in the charge of specialists but are irredeemably alone.
-Jean Sulivan

*Technocratic rearrangements are insignificant and can offer no remedy to the illness secreted by a profit society.
-Jean Sulivan