The modern parable is not a gift from the gods
that will shake and rattle you from your yawnful slumber.
The modernness of it is guttural, echo-proof, fluent in silent
metaphor and permissive; its guise absolves it from roughage.
Knowing it is to accumulate the tiny gruelling anecdotes
suffering fate as if time has nothing better to do.
Annointing it with a knowledge of dark chambers and vestibular
linkages to uneven pasts and disproportionate yet-to-comes. This
is not your lived out present, is not, will not want to be.
Awaiting tender belatednesses, the word of distance rankles;
it prepares a frontal crouching towards, a wrinkle
that guffaws in the face of laughable possibilities that choose to
sit it out; in the corridors of the unintelligibilia, the floors of
shodden faith. Go then in the manner of adversaries, decamped,
unsolid, unvested of claim; go then as the stupid hawk would,
affluent in its tainted flight, abrasive because it grates; go then, as
would the breath of the stupid hawk would, breathing an unlived
air, stalking an unwanted stare into a gazeless after than after noon.