Right of Passage

Kelly Shaw

I took my holidays by wintering
in Siberia and summering in
the Sahara.

For thoughts as in a glass snowball
can be disconcertingly swirlish,
and in fact my walk still remains
remarkably pendulous.

But when I think about the diurnal
chasings of the latest zebraic energy,
I wonder whether there might be
another way.

I think of not thinking, of
working for a living, digging holes
and all the roots worming out
like snakes.

Ok, new coordinates: silence (underdog)
noise (overdog) and after going out
into the world all colloquial and stilted
on my checkered walk,
wouldn’t you know dad called
to ask about my alarmingly more perpetual
state: no application whatsoever and
the spectacle of a grown man hallucinating
is despicable. Point taken, it can be
exhausting telling stories all the time.

Newcomers have also given me forms
to live by but not too much I hope
among this various dream of living,
for I’m also giddy for the ancient
pleasures, but not too dark I hope
since the sun doesn’t set
but just goes away for a while,
and it’s hard to choose which
consciousness industry as the wind
carries seeds or playing charades
and being assigned teleology.