Virgil Is Not the Guide Here

But my dear grotesque love, you know

the heart—especially what it wants—means

 

nothing to the landscape. Sometimes

when we forget, we are sentenced to the chaotic

spiral of an everlasting sink hole. Repeating cycle

 

after cycle, like the wash cycle and the rinse cycle

in a machine that makes nothing clean, rather it just moves

 

dust around. Oblivion is constant falling

without the ability to unlean what falling really means

 

when you stop, knowing nothing of what to expect

when stopped.  The living knows loss. Even the dead eyed

 

are lost to their real feelings.  It’s agreed

emotions aren’t abstract, just unknowable.  I fear

 

forgetfulness, so let’s not fail to recall that it is no

myth man removes mountains, lights underground

 

fires, and kills the deepest sea

Oar Fish with radioactivity from Fukushima.  Styx is safer

 

to swim in.  Human beings as a species have learned

nothing because they always forget. Greed and gluttony scar

 

the mountains more than love could ever restore.  In a world

where black coke dust is clean, who are the real sinners?

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