Like Flies to Wanton Boys
Theodicy, 2008 - Butterflies - Rumpelstiltskin - With Flu, at 100 Degrees
The little boy with twig arms and hydrocephalic brain
bangs his head against the wall ten hours a day
in that sad room with the urine smell
in the Baker Centre next to the Bow River
in Calgary in the winter of 1977
in that sad room in my head.
If there's a grand reason for that
then there's an answer for everything.
What dreams do young women dream
under the canopies of their four-poster beds
in the silent hours of the night?
When they open the flowers of their eye-lashes
fluttering like butterflies in the dark
do they smell the sweetness
of the upland fields
of their origin?
And when the valley men
come to harvest
with their iron machetes
riding their hooves and leather straps
do they remember the sight of the bright flowers
and the sweet smell of lavender that once drifted in the wind?
What happens to a Stream reversed,
When expectations of the Golden Age
With Rumpelstiltskin power
Thread Straw from memories of Gold?
With Flu, at 100 Degrees
Even in the harshest light
with pounding head and bloodshot eyes
I'd rather see.
In death we may be the same as limestone
or silicon in space ten billion years away.
So breathe, albeit smog-choked air.
Those who live are here to feel the moment
and give it meaning
for in the vast scripts and logs of time
numbers are but numbers and cannot breathe.
So smell the moment's air
though it smells like burnt rubber
and doesn’t care.