Museum Of Poetry

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Loaded Dice and Poisoned Candy

  

Hardly even know it’s there

most of the time...

after all, we can be a (somewhat)

fundamentally oblivious species:

whether posited, serenely, in proper lotus position

in the middle of some shimmeringly pristine

mountaintop scenario or deeply steeped

in some sweaty, chaotic configuration of love,

or (just as likely), broke down 

on the side of the highway, 

I-35 let’s say, just south of Topeka, Kansas

(with five pallets of National Enquirers,

bearing the tear-streaked face of Miley Cyrus,

that has GOT to get through):

a weathered cargo ship

run aground under a brutal, relentless sun,

one-o-one in the shade 

and a beer can rolling along all of a sudden 

like a tumbleweed in an old cowboy movie, 

(and now a dog barking off in the distance, 

as if on cue).

So, we are allowed, now and then,

an absolution, of sorts, 

from our inherent obligation

to fundamental attentiveness

to most of the obvious 

and at least some of the finer points

of the subtext, metatext and copious footnotes

to the post, post-modernist novel of Life.

But, still it hovers and circles,

always lurking just out of the corner of the eye,

waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike,

doling out fate and fortune, 

good, bad and indifferent, alike,

the free-floating nucleus 

of the all-encompassing,

all-permeating physics of context,

the fluid matrical mechanica

of how things really are,

the constantly shifting locus

of the very shit that happens to us,

again and again and again 

in sloppy viscous loops...

The moment ultimately coming to a point, 

like the point of a big red arrow

on the Metaphysical Highway 

Rest Stop Map Of Life, 

like the finger of God pointing, 

just a little too accusingly, 

at you (and you and you) 

as if to say 

YOU ARE HERE

(and here you are)!

Hell, 

everything else

is extenuating circumstances

and low-grade

accommodation,

loaded dice and poisoned candy.


Jason Ryberg - Kansas City

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