Old Prophet

prophet

.   .   .

I don’t know what to do with myself.
Ambiguity is all the rage.
Certainty is fallen from favor and
The categorical pronouncement, my
Bread and butter, is out of vogue.
What used to earn me a few
Scraps of deference, even from the
Impious, now gets me nothing but
Antipathy. The needle’s spinning.
Everything’s equivocal. My pockets
Bulge with foreign currency.

What good are visions?
What good searing clarity?
How many times do you retool
Your shtick before you own up
That the act isn’t salvageable?
Perhaps even a god has to move on.
But what does that leave me?
A discarded script? Finger soiled
Leaves of dry grass? What is there
For a Vaudevillian? They don’t do
Black and white anymore, buddy.

I’m no Ulysses.
I’ve got no boat, no crew, no name.
I have nothing to vindicate.
Yet I too know what rust is.
Nor do I go willingly to Byzantium, that
Home for varicose verities, though
I hear the clank of obsolescence.
No. Instead I will wheeze into this thin air
Tin provocations whose feeble barbs
May by chance prick the Almighty.

That, I suppose, is something.
Not much—

But something.

.   .   .

hands

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