Kansas Is Full of Good Men



There are things not even
a poem of infinite
craft can carve into a cup small enough
that it might fit into hands,
our only-a-few-days hands,
and lift to the mouth, the lips
thirsty for days yet come when, and only when,
only after all days are said and done.

Sure as the sun on the days when we are thirsty
for the quiet assurance of rain on the roof-
sure as the sun reminds us of our duty
to welcome the new seasons and wait for the old,
failure litters the path to Pisgah
and fingers close over my face so that-
how do I say that I can’t bare to see
the smallness of the portion of the vision I’ll behold
all through the wait for all days to be
said, sung, and told.

You know, the faux folks in costume, in character,
watching makers dictate
strange worlds of the same old possibilities
embraced by upside down limits
on how many moves you can make per game-

the petit voices of the poets buried
in ground and above ground buried in novels
the joy of scholars living in the words of ancient worlds-

How do I show that not all recluses and reality deniers
are rejecting “the real.”
Perhaps they/me are instead aching for the ideal,
drowning in the blue longing for a place
where evil beheaded doesn’t grow two,
where love has happy endings not painful
fading out of life and passion lost
in order to survive, thrive, win friends, and influence people.

I am falling short of success wishing for
the blue of a world that’s black and white
one in which we can taste the whole honey blue of a thousand
fragmented birds, or butterflies, or flowers.

Kansas is full of good men.

When, on warm days, I lie in the tall grass
the stab, the pang, the inconsolable
longing grows over me. I want
to feel not only what is around me,
more I want to lie in what is beyond me,
finally to fall through the temporary
and painfully tangible wall
softly into the penumbra of greatness
whispering across the gloom.

Hush, listen, because in the quietest of moments
you can hear it pierce the cloud cover
briefly reaching down touching the soil
faintly bearing the echo of a rainbow-
the blush of true red, the last note of true violet,
a blue that I only see when I close my eyes
to weep because I can say that

one body so fragile and small
cannot hold as much as is revealed
within that one eternal spark of sunlight
distinct against the reflection of the shadow
separating us from the ideal,
the final begining

when we see the blue of satisfaction,
the blue we can taste, that fills us-
the blue of never again seeing the fragments
that only gives our wish for blue
a whet.


Rainbow in Iceland. Photo by Ezra.

Rainbow in Iceland. Photo by Ezra.




2 thoughts on “Kansas Is Full of Good Men

  1. Pingback: A Magnificent Northern Sunset | An American in Iceland

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