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Marc McKee

Crayon Rhapsody


I want to be one with everything

without losing my specific

and special individuality,

so the birds you hear are halved

bearclaws and important

and inside me.  War is never

so beautiful as when it is the period epic

playing in the contemporary costume

of my theater, my hands

like trade commissions

and never free.  What self?

You mean rock?  This rock rocks

like the one given me by Zeri, a charm

for to arrive safe home again. 

Maybe if everyone was issued

such a rocking rock

everything in the swirled

would becalm itself.  It is hard

to throw a party, it is hard to be alone

and over the course of a week

several failures are enacted. 

Everything is a different color. 

Impossible to decorate, impossible

to discontinue emotional involvement

of.  Every ghost is a different color

so we can never be sure who has come

to greet us.  I will never change

this rock/golf ball the world.  Even if

it’s a golf ball in an arid, abrased canyon

I will never be an ant upon the golf ball

governing the epochs that, big and small,

continue to shape the golf ball’s destiny.

Even when I am a golf ball beside

a monster truck that plays host 

to all the promenade celebrations

of the last years of nation-state viability.

Still, how can a golf ball like me feel

such unimaginable glee, such shards

of giddy sadness?  You’ve got to admit,

it’s kind of miraculous.


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