Portland, Oregon. Multnomah Falls, 2014

Our guide walked up a hill,
His one good eye poking into a tarantula’s hole.
We were sweaty and distracted, squinting.
The path weathered.
Stone and structure,
Jungle real-estate.
We watched the sacred stars built layer upon layer,
Hundreds of generations gone wrong.
I am not sure.
That crumbly mystery with earthbound aspirations,
And cosmic problems,
A giant machine hunting the origin of the universe
Drunk on local rum,
Standing before the ruin,
Gripped with last week,
We tried to figure out the universe,
The similarities between structures and generations
And why the cosmos is hospitable to life.
Designed to do less
The gods of the underworld laid out stone
The priests mark the passing of time
Silent
They believe that the underground, in comparison to the cosmos,
Seeks to explain things (in apocalyptic terms)
Everyone is unhappy
Unfulfilled with panic
Watching the drama of a country that they put together
Culture weakens like a natural disaster
The world works
The system continues
The current time bets un-inspiringly on the elusive origin of blood
We did not expect to suffer the true cause of the exodus
Soon, in some future, ruins will survive and people will speculate what the priesthood was up to .

found word poem
“When Mortals work in Cosmic Time.” Sunday August 9th, 2009

MFA candidate at the University of New Olreans

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