Psalm Y
poetchilde takes a turn at falling asleep upon my couch
And he wakes to the sound of the furnace
Which he mistakes for the sound of wind
As it has been a cold and blustery day.
He wakes with thoughts of the vulcan
Banging his gong upon his anvil
To mark each hour of the slow-passing night
As drunkenness, vicarious weeping,
And illicit entry betide,
And his thoughts drift to rebellion
Against the cruel dominion of fate.
He trudges a hundred slow-passing hours
Each marked by the reading of a sonnet
Sunken into and struggling against the wreckage
Of this world.
Liquor is a rebellion poured down the gullet
To say what’s the use of a hard day’s work—
Picking a quarrel is a rebellion with some hombre
Who stands tall and votes and salutes the flag—
Standing tall is a rebellion against vicissitudes
That seem to threaten the support of life—
Hacking the Internet is a rebellion against strongholds
And complacency and gossip and a thousand fake friends—
Gossip is a rebellion against the sludge
Gathering slower in one’s life than another’s—
A man in a skirt is a rebellion against norms
And sameness and family life so boring it hurts—
Prejudice is a rebellion stemming from ignorance
Of desperations faced by pathetic ones.
Bong-ng-ng sounds the gong and another sonnet gets written.
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