Know Where You're Going

Knock it unconscious first, then tip it over,
preferably on its side: then cut it open.
Its belly is soft and vulnerable where, behind
tough skin, things undigested churn; things
still digesting; a stew of image and sound.

Use a good blade, one whose fine edge you've stayed
awake nights sharpening with oil and stone.
Recollections in idleness? That's a start.

Bury the knife's point deep in the animal,
then slice deliberately. Now, with both hands,
stuff in the things you've learned in life. Impregnate
the guts with ideas, so that, some hundred years on,
eyes that light here might see what you were up to.

Surely, a hollow brute is a joy when, saddled,
you're off at a gallop, heading in no direction,
happily wandering nowhere in particular,
but that can't last. Give the reins a pull
and think for a moment. Over the far brown hills
a red sun sleepily descends. Consider:
a journey presupposes a destination.



1999 (imitating David Waggoner: badly; sent it to him; rejected, you can see why.)