On the Nature of Appointed Vanity
Covering the dying sort.
circa a royal cabin of favors and treats:
entertained well, eating splendidly,
served upon command, destined
to be massaged over and over again;
first to be sponsored, first to be saved,
in line to sit at the Captain’s table.
Christ, what a showboat!
A spectacle of faith;
to think that he who is everything
could deliver himself up as naught,
fearful and mortal,
abandoned and alone,
with no legend as a mother
and no deity for a dad:
somehow deprived of disciples’ worship,
the majestic adoring crowds,
with no host of angels at his beck and call;
depressed of insight and heavenly miracles –
except at the communion cross
with the Almighty.
Do we see in the face of woman
a love that is not there?
Do we see in the face of the universe
a God that is not there?
For always the Hand that could save
is far away.
And into the depths of forever,
a straggling mind,
struggling to catch him,
deposits itself down beside a cold star,
wrapped in vacuous fluorescence.
Upon the horns of Taurus
the self is gutted;
the eye is pierced by a spear.
A light-year, a par-sec, a galaxy away,
Sleep within sleep;
shall I lie down knowing
I shall awaken in someone else’s dream?
Of the time I still possess,
and of the minutes remaining in the hourglass –
this much early, this much late,
this much unhinted to:
close of mind anyway.
This contradiction which beguiles minds,
and squelches hope’s start.
What for rationality’s sake will not condescend,
and ill-named functions …
possessing synchronous real and ideal points,
blend into non-geometrical alignment.
In the last, suffer now;
to create life lower than oneself is immoral.
Dr. Walter Boswell