You Be the Judge

Saltwater sloshes at my puttee-clad boots
as I sway beside my brother, the lieutenant.
His son, nearby, is propped on an elbow,
smoking in a crowded bunk at the sally port.

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This place used to be alive. I can feel it.
The walls of the cliffs ascend beyond sight,
and the shadows engulf me as I walk.
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Descended smoke thick as Beijing smog
Cell phone coverage and landlines out
All ties cut to the world-wide web
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The water fountain
at All Saints Church
is built for children.
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A man approached the Master,
mind sincere, heart confused.
He wanted to serve no other.

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I’ve heard interminable stories
about the inordinate number
of Inuit words for snow.
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In Architecture: The arrangement of windows and doors in a building.
In Medicine: A surgical procedure to correct certain causes of deafness.

found lines from a time of great unrest, after Émile Coué

In 1920, Coué released Self-Mastery Through Conscious Autosuggestion in which he called the technique one with which “we play unconsciously all our life, as a baby plays with its rattle. It is however a dangerous instrument; it can wound or even kill if you handle it imprudently and unconsciously. It can on the contrary save your life when you know how to employ it consciously.”

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He tries to stay light on his feet.

His name is not Muhammed Ali.
He does not float like a butterfly,
he does not sting like a bee.
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