Ages of Information / Joshua Alan Sturgill
I slide slyways along the knife,
keeping to the margins,
balanced on the rails.
I have my own Information
invisible to this Age.
I watch its great physicians gather
to dissect and disassemble;
they demand answers
from the corpses of their teachers.
They cut their bones finely
and separate sinews into jars.
But I have no place in their catalog.
They don’t see
how the smoggy-green glare
of their surgery lamp
sharpens the shadows behind them
into stepping stones.
They don’t hear
how I chant the Psalm:
… into their nets, while I pass by …
The landfill of specialties, cancerous, swells.
But I observe it from afar,
a landmark on my horizon.
The hoarder-house of new knowledge
suffocates its occupants.
But I’ve read the fairytale;
I tiptoe past the witch’s lair.
Research builds roads no one can walk
while lilacs bloom from intuition,
and the cast-offs of reason
make solid footing from scree.
The litter of last night’s carnival
marks a thousand paths to Paradise.
I am shamed by my powerlessness.
But shame causes me to stoop
so I fit through the door.
I am humiliated by my reluctance.
Humiliation sallows my skin
and I am overlooked at the market.
I find confusion
directs me away from confusion,
and repulsion fuels my prayer.
What else can I do but embrace
these slow, deliberate inversions?
This is the Age of Formation
All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2024 by Joshua Alan Sturgill. All rights reserved.
darklybrightpress.com 