Joseph Farley

in the year of second sight
all looked back and not ahead
so they missed the chance
to fool the future
and were forced to suffer again
a past not worth repeating.

You will deny
knowing me,

and I will deny
knowing you,
and all will deny
where they were,

and what they said
and did,

chastened by the fires
that still burn.

At the end of this day
another begins.

The sun burning through your window
replaces the moon.

What is night with eyes closed?
Forget the darkness.

You are here and all is good.
The sky, the grass, the stones

exist for your viewing pleasure.
Ignore temptation

to listen to the devil
reminding this will all end,

and may have already,
since you’ve been trying so hard

not to notice.

It waits
it lingers
it need not hide
but bides its time
evil knows
there will always be
a next time
another chance
to make mayhem
cause pain
and destroy
all that we
poor ants that we are
have assembled
out of sand

Forget the meaning of “this” or “that.”
Imagine no language,
an entanglement of minds,
confused as tree branches
reaching for the sky,
not understanding or sure
they want to.

The truth was just outside the cave.
That’s what we were told,
but none was brave enough to check.
So we stayed in the dark with the shadows,
silhouettes and shapes mistaken for much more,
enough for the majority on most nights.
Only when too much has happened
can we find the strength to stare down that tunnel
searching for the light of better days.

Let the walls tumble
and the horns sound.
There’s money to be made
from all that rubble.
Removal, repair, reconstruction.
Jobs. Jobs. Jobs.
Hold back not your valor.
Your economy needs you.
Fight as though your wallet
depends on it.

I won’t give you
the satisfaction
of tasting my blood.
I will drink it all,

not leaving
a single drop
for you to lick
from the floor.

At the end
there’s nothing I can say.
No soliloquy
would fit
well in a room
with tubes and machines
that go ping.

Try not to read
too much
into final moments.
Who really stays
to watch the credits
anyway.

I’m not important.
I know that.
But I like to pretend
that I am.
It makes my legs flow
easier into my trousers.
I walk bolder, more upright,
not quite a king
or even a duke,
just a peasant with swagger
and knives in his eyes.