Archive
11/01/09 - (3)
My Life's Work
The closest I've ever come to creative greatness, In my tiny life's constricted existence, Its entire earthly narrative,
Is in the guise of the two children, sculpted from clay, My wife and I breathed life into, Progeny singled out from our commingled designs,
With earthly measurements, expectations, Not standards of celestial perfection Even deities would have difficulty matching.
That I confess this, with fervent humility, Could be taken as a sign of divine enlightenment Or just a manifestation of ego abnegation,
A letting-go, a jettisoning, at sixty-eight, Of all pretensions to fame, celebrity, apotheosis, That grandiose hope I possessed, in my mid-twenties,
Of one day becoming, by virtue of amazing originality, My generation's epic voice, Its next Gilgamesh/Odyssey/Song of Songs scribe.
Such success wasn't meant to bless my restless destiny. What I was really intended to best accomplish Was to father two children,
Two beautiful beings, Trilogy and Troika, To remind me that in their pulsing blood, radiating love, Dreams of genius, prosperity, salvation, immortality,
Go I, the poet of minuscule scope, Goes my soul, whatever's left of my spirit, anyway, Go the demons and the angels of my creative heritage.
11/01/09 - (3)
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