At the Foot of the Windmill
        Every stink that fights the ventilator thinks it is Don Quixote.
        —Stanislaw Jerzy Lec

I love having my hands in the mane of this world.
I love bounding across battlefields on its back.

It pays no heed, this steed, pockmarked
As it is with crater and flower, trash and balderdash.

Great the futility, like a tinfoil helmet to protect
Our hero from the UFO attack.

I love digging my heels into the back of this world
As it howls through the missile storm towards Bethlehem.

It is laced with random DNA and binary code.
It is sweating neutrinos ions magnetars.

Great the humility, like a cardboard sword held high
In the acid rain upon a muddy floodplain.

I love mingling my being with the molten core of this world.
I love becoming a part of its burning crystal.

It is hedonistic by nature, it is insatiable plunder.
It is chock-full of rotten toxic wonder.

Great the serenity, like a scalp held high by an Apache
Over the false victory at the end of the eulogy.

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Copyright © 2012 Joseph V. Milford All rights reserved
from Knockout
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission