for Scott Boac
We walked among the twisted oaks,
circling our charcoal fire,
the stone table with our ceremonial picnic
standing like a tomb beside which we talked
about the meaning of life
as those at a funeral,
our deaths, there in the hot dog buns
and "delux" wieners, presaged and sad,
the dissonance of our frustrated sexuality
playing softly in the background.
I could not speak as a father to a son,
for it turns out that I have never really been good at either,
I blamed it on capitalism.
And you, an orphan in the universe,
feeling so small and so alone,
tried to say that life is either right or wrong.
We did not die with those dying embers.
The beauty of hot dogs in the park
died for us long before we got there,
and we were wise men earlier, too,
the impasses of discourse only serving
to make us look a little foolish,
no better than any other picnickers beset by darkness,
gathering up our gear and going home.
Humility is a hard lesson--
perhaps the hardest of them all--
and some choose to refuse it altogether,
wild horses that cannot be brought to rein.
I run to my narrow words
as I have always done.
Secret in my secret soul
I tell myself that what I do cannot be wrong,
and listen to myself and agree with me,
and go on dying but not being dead,
like a ham actor--shot, but never finished falling.
--1985?
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