its truth some days live in a painful
cardboard box out on highway 61 the hammer
grasps its uses slipping off the shelf to
the concrete floor the noises of production
distant now the people I thought I knew
turned blue, turned away, turned toward the
sea we are all going there when the road
runs out and that said I still wander on
my track looking for the right way to stay
considering the method of the orgasm the
tall tale dis-interred in that bedrock
median of leftover garbage of detail and
culture they think may be our subconscious
the "a" horizon is never enough
the "b" and "c" and "d" and endless infinite
jests of time's layers on down through infancy
and some who yell at me and some who carefully
brush the dust from what seems meaningful
yet the story, told in tables, gathered
in diverse opinions like an archaeological
site report reveals almost nothing currently
useful. that is to say, I can't dig myself
out of this box. It assembles its own coffin.
when I go and my poor children look at
loki in his midst, they will chuckle
ruefully and Joel will make fun of me
like he does now and Paige will be confused
at how she feels and Piper will not forgive
me anything. that is pretty much only fair.

thor's hammer, amulet and cross, doorway
to the sacred, my own sweet memory of crossing
through to this lifetime
striking the forge the sparks fly
if there were tinder there'd be a sudden
tower of flame
shantih we all said that girl told
me that back when I was deceiving myself
about her
her sister is the pony in that story
the one trick pony turned out to be
me and arrogant but not enough
to dump this desire and why did I do
any of the things I did?

the hammer grasped its value
never doubted what little that matters
comes from its use these words
this seed the world undiscovered
so mistakes were made
acting too soon or never acting
the door will close soon enough
thor will take me through its oaken panels
into valhalla's candid tapestry
the words will have meaning again
I will rise up in the night sky
a constellation gleaming
rose fires in supernova
you will see me
all of you
what it will mean no longer matters
arc of life
the great prism of requirement
see you on a wednesday
somewhere near the restoration of this
memory