When A Writer Is Born Into A

I Knew That I Would Speak In The Language Of The Vanquished No More Durable Than Old Customs, Family Rituals, Christmas Tinsel, And Once A Year The Hilarity Of Carols.

Do Not Feel Safe. The Poet Remembers. You Can Kill One, But Another Is Born. The Words Are Written Down, The Deed, The Date.

Religion Used To Be The Opium Of The People. To Those Suffering Humiliation, Pain, Illness, And Serfdom, Religion Promised The Reward Of An After Life. But Now, We Are Witnessing A Transformation, A True Opium Of The People Is The Belief In Nothingness After Death, The Huge Solace, The Huge Comfort Of Thinking That For Our Betrayals, Our Greed, Our Cowardice, Our Murders, We Are Not Going To Be Judged.

Poetry Is News Brought To The Mountains By A Unicorn And An Echo.

The Vineyard Country, Russet, Reddish, Carmine-brown In This Season. A Blue Outline Of Hills Above A Fertile Valley. It's Warm As Long As The Sun Does Not Set, In The Shade Cold Returns. A Strong Sauna And Then Swimming In A Pool Surrounded By Trees. Dark Redwoods, Transparent Pale-leved Birches. In Their Delicate Network, A Sliver Of The Moon. I Describe This For I Have Learned To Doubt Philosophy And The Visible World Is All That Remains.