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Sing it like a nightingale

“Sing it like a nightingale with
bad teeth,” “Raise the curtain high
above us seven days a week” “I like
music that lulls me”—no points
of light, no waves—just brightness
or the rainbow contours that sway
in an horizon of mists and tricks

Mom said “Della, if you tell me
again this is all God’s will, I’ll
strangle you”—With their iron 
weapons and cavalry they 
ruled over us all in fear, demanded 
our tribute and made us their
slaves—You can’t experience

everything, you can’t sense it all—
because some saintly thing came close to 
us and yet remained so deeply unavailing 
Trees, unlike you and me, die
standing and democracy requires
honest stanchions, a wiry iron frame 
of agreements and staunch conduct

The sting of stillness in a 
captured moment when only 
chance can save us—
takes us back to the black alleys 
of our lunatic fringe politics, 
of accidents and bad decisions like
a social dystopian dip of entropy

You won’t remove your
individuality from this world 
or imagine a world without subjective
objects within yourself and your
vast array of inner schemes,
dependent upon relentless states
of ardent cleverness and change 

They lower the sails, gather in the lines,
their racism descends into savagery every 
time if left unrepressed, if left unstable,
the bloody nationalist case displayed
in every military cemetery throughout
the world, like icebox dreams 
in search of a pinnacle of meaning

You yearn for the falcon’s 
wing embedded in a crown from
behind the king’s stone head—
he wasn’t a fool, just old, conceited,
weak, always beside you, always behind 
you, like human history embedded 
in the biosphere, static and stripped

What does our exile tell us? 
Their fancy clothes were more 
impressive than the fools they
adorned, like a series of mysteries,
within a falcon’s eyes, like some
realm where the physical rules no
longer applied, as we exile from 

bondage to freedom, from childish
fantasies to reality’s guilt, through
escape from an unstable world permeated
with accidents, where the first writings in stone
weren’t special revelations of the divine, just some
dry bureaucratic governmental records where the
worms of our lives fastened themselves from within 

-August 10, 2019-