Spirit of rage

So difficult, so wrenching to call up rage—
It just stumbles and stammers, like trying to speak in tongues when not in the spirit.

Rage should be easy.
For doesn’t the world disrupt our pastimes with a shriek?
Yet it is also the world who assures me of my welcome,
Inlaid with a deep still standing wood,
Where I can wander with the sparrows, the mites, the murmuring ferns,
Whose mycelia ground me in their forbearing nourishment,
A web unheeding of time,
A demographic never captured by any econometrist.

It's certainly possible to drive to the mall,
Look up at its captivating marquees.
Pause by the stone Adonis and fountain to marvel—
Not at the ersatz architecture of persuasion,
But marvel, yes, at the maleable architecture of one’s own mind,
That salivates at these props.
But one must take off when the wax buffers come out.

In the lattice of the parking lot one shakes away indolence.
Return with all the others to office hours with coffee pods and dread,
Solaced with small condolences
And exchanging grins of furtive recognition.
Interceptors hover too close,
We no longer can afford outrage.
The escapees I know settle for inrage.

But leave the parking lot by another exit,
It takes you soon to the outskirts,
And then into the vast vacant mountains,
Places solely of spirit.
Breathe candor.
Returning before dark to the streets.

Andy Oram
April 11, 2018

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