or, Ode to the Rainmaker
Intransient. Stuck and so minted
in that place like a city on a hill,
Stymied in the bothered flats where
the mud tracks across an exotic rug.
The rugged traders pass through town,
pelting the rubes with tales
Of a brave Ulysses who
(who knows?) just over the horizon
May be taking his own leisure,
composing memoirs completely imagined —
Nonetheless unimpeachable
at least to those who stayed behind.
And after all, a tale told is a tale just the same,
True unto itself even if not entirely honest.
And this is all most wish to know.
The moral rectitude of a lie lies only in its consistency.
So have wars been enjoined and theisms engendered.
(and more basely, riches gained, purity stained).
But in the regaling of a few paltry souls
Where’s the harm in a bit of frolic foist?
So. The palmed coin is adroitly flipped
To the crowds chagrin —
‘Tails, you lose. Heads, he wins.’
Still, the imagined trip proves the saw:
‘Tis the journey, not the end.’
But one hick can’t help but wonder,
‘If not the end, why not stay behind?’
poetastrophy 