My Idiot
That pent up energy in me
has no logic but itself,
that part that understands
has no intelligence but intuition.
The glory, like lightning,
strikes like an insensate predator hunting,
and sets a blaze that burns to the limit
of the sky and the depth of the soul.
The hand that moves the pen
has no more sentience
than the leg that moves the horse
or the wheel that moves the car.
But the pen’s endless meandering,
the hand’s jittery journey,
across the ever more scarred page
draws lines cutting circles
that spiral ever inward to the point
of its crooked, idiot journey,
ever closer but never arriving,
a slantwise tilt at the truth.
I am the father unknowing,
the mother coddling uncaring,
the brother who abandoned home
in search of a thing with no name,
travelling without a map
or a compass or a car,
on a journey that is a river
cruise in a drunken boat.
