Promulgating art of others,
whether poets in vernacular
or the bible authors, brothers
tending to be tabernacular;
quite unlike me in my suburb,
far from splendid shrine or temple,
where there is no priestly hubbub
setting me a good example.
I will try to sway no tillers,
moving few minds but my own
in communities whose pillars
fear they might be overthrown
if a Samson came unblinded,
preaching to the Philistines
who don’t care to be reminded
of the mindfields where the mines
are the thoughts that can’t be spoken
lest the ancient world collapse.
“Do not fix what isn’t broken, ”
they declare, and fill the gaps
in their minds with empty blather,
washed down with a can of beer.
With dead writers I would rather
spend my time, and disappear.