“Fame
is a form
of incomprehension,
perhaps
the worst.”
~
Jorge Luis
Borges
The
caller ID
shows it’s
my uncle.
I
ignore it–
having my
hands full
with
Stephen
Dunn, his
soul-grit
roughing
me up.
I
wonder if
God is displeased
with me
for
not answering,
if
I’ve breached
some family
contract.
Someone,
I don’t
know who,
once said,
No
man is worthy
of heaven
or hell
when
deception
is what
is wanted
from us.
Maybe
it was me,
or Borges–
it
makes no
difference.
Have
we not written
each other?
There
is no poet,
however
mediocre,
who
has not
written
the best
line in
literature,
but
also the
most miserable
ones.
Now
that’s Borges,
and
assuredly,
I’m guilty
of the latter.
But
can I be
blamed
for
this desire
to be alone,
unbothered,
completely
focused?
In
the stillness
of my mind,
a
samurai,
his
life a harmony
fathered
by rigor
and discipline,
not
in the beautiful
and deadly
symmetry
of his sword,
but
in his banal
acts
–each
one a perfect
meditation–
the
greeting
and farewell,
the
walk shadowed
by cherry
blossoms,
and
the exquisite
pouring
of tea.