Antiquity has no birthplace
but its endless events
are interlocked in our mind
in such a manner
that when disjointed
they provide useful parts
for our looking glass,

I remember my sword
it was flanked by sidewinders
and jet fumes by day
baby oiled skin-so-soft at night
ceremonial prize fights
like Lamotta stunning
and staggering
refusing to go down
each door was an oyster
to be ripped open,

a cost loomed for my bitterness
my skin was now ripe
showing wears like a pear
signs of damage
each a dynamic puzzle piece
an appraisal of events,

I found myself staring
at things, you know –
floating clouds and sunsets
baby blue skies
violas on fire
with bumble bees
making love to all
the cone flowers
while nectar rains
down on yellow
and black prairie finches,

things I never noticed
because I was too **** busy
with my lousy tape
and chin-straps
before empathy
and before kindness
became more well-defined
for me
when I was caught up
in a “make-believe”
angry world,

I remember when
heading over the bridge
for morning muster
in a five hundred dollar
decomposed blue Chevy wagon
that I never told anyone about
because it was too humiliating
as I chased my father,

some never notice anything
on a globe where life
is lived forward
and only understood backwards
now Kierkegaard and I
sipping wine in coach,

this bygone formula
where each calculation
is carved out of stone
now has value per chapter
that I must clench  
or I will miss eternally.