No Go With the Flow

In Yeatsian gyration we descend—

But, no—that’s far too grand—

Lead-footed we stagger and lunge

after baubles of flesh, or stone

and we fall off the edge of things:

Gravity snares the cloud-born rain

cracks its spine at 90-degrees

and without mercy irons it flat—

To stream is to slave—

“I’m a survivor”: the zombie’s delusion:

Satan rules the temporal—

the 8-hour day, the pilgrimage—

Eisenhower’s autobahn—

the floor of the rolling sea—

the arrow’s flight, the apostolic succession:

Twixt Point A & Point B

a purgatorial wasteland—

Teleology is tyranny—

Aspiration targets ten-thousand hells—

The crux of Robert Johnson’s crossroads:

Where one is is freedom—

To ascend from a point is to attempt an escape—

To become is to rise—

Fog is infernal—

Grace is evaporation.