SINGERS OF THE SOIL

Suffer if you like.

A better option is
to sing and SING!

In saxophones and clarinets
and history lessons on East Sixth Street
there is a purpose:

driving straight for a note
like a hawk beading a squirrel.

The bird will be joyful
to tear flesh from a furry carcass
and survey his land.

The singer, too, rejoices
to tear from his own damp guts
a testament to his earth.

Earth!
The complete song!

Have you another?

Dream all you like
of heavens and hells,

of otherlands and netherworlds,

yes DREAM! But after,
tell me:

Did you inhale the scent of soil there?
Did you find some other grass below a tree of sparrows?
Where else have you found oceans to swim?
Glorious fruit and fowl and wine?
Where else but EARTH?

I am made for here.

This life, this place.

I will seek no other.

There is no worry of God.

There IS wind on my face,
purple flowers and crackling storms,
boulders rising like woken giants.

There is the human body,
oiled and lithe, tossing itself in the sun.

There is cold liquid to parched lips.
There is the unmistakable moan of passion.

There is the rattle and release
of music through the bones.

Here and now, there is us.

These are answers.

The question of God pales

next to Earth, sweet home,

infinite chance at song,

springboard of every guiltless voice.