The Short Answer

The Short Answer

You ask me to draw a line
Between the mundane and the holy.
Have you ever lived, for all your early life

in the zone, between cowshit and miracles?

Between what seemed like constant beatings,

abuse, and visions, or at least an intense desire to be transfigured, transported, or just taken the fuck away from Dodge?

Embraced in the comfort of Goddesses?

Compare, contrast the history of short answers and deeply delusional realists.

I feel you're not listening or maybe you're just not prepared to listen. My problem? Or is it yours? Or does it all depend on who holds the power and the authority, whether earned or unearned?

This is not a poem, it's a question in the form of one. Sometimes the answer is a question and sometimes the questions are the only answers we have or can hope for.