Save the Scribes

The makers of great literature

built the furniture of the future,

an edifice of medicine to rescue

us from excess.  In our perilous

success, will we bury ourselves

alive in our own excrement,

or live to resuscitate our predecessors–

not literally, but by breathing life

back into them with our own breath-

taking brains instead of letting

them perish out of negligence?

 

It’s a question whose digestion

compels rumination before venturing

an answer.  Who here can do

the balancing act needed to live

in this moment with all the passion

and perception required, all the while

remembering the caryatids who have

held up the temple

for contemplative generations?

 

Who’s strong enough to lift

this ponderous load on his or her own

shoulders without a cynical snicker,

nodding to the gnawing needs

of future feeders, again without

erasing the embrace of the past?

 

Let me know when your reply

can defy the odds, before we’re all

lying underneath the sod with the rest

of the gods most no longer applaud,

our fingers too busy fondling

gadgets, eyes fondly bonding

with images, ears seeking voices

so fleeting there’s no way they can

hope to stanch the bleating.

 

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