moan [debased]
“friends part/ forever — wild geese/ lost in cloud” Basho.
Not all poems need explanations. Like this one. I recorded it outside the Children's Museum in Grand Rapids, MI. The two gentlemen in the very last shot walking behind me turned and began to heckle me a bit after I switched off the camera. Later I tried to re-record the poem but felt that this version was stronger, even if it was nearly ruined by jerks.
I'm not a velvet ant. Unlike the bee
my sting is smooth. It's as pointless to talk
about sin as it's to say “I'm sorry”
for all this pain. I am changing, I lock
myself up in prayer, I am in the air,
I am everywhere. There is a hive
outside my window. Wasps are a prayer
of sorts, they're as empty as me. We thrive
the way your gods and devils thrive. Devils
are our aftermath outside the window.
Look at what I am. These private evils
you speak of are trite. Watch me rise, hollow
inside; feel my rage-grown wings, my moan
debased, I am a blur, all sting and drone.