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Oh, Jesus

Vol Lindsey

Her name is Tracy K Smith
and when she reads her poetry of
didactic imagery,
she is soft and sensual as
D.H. Lawrence when
he leans that way. She says, my body
is a myth.
In South Africa, there is a storm
over the discovery of Lucy’s cousins
asleep in a cave for one point nine
million years.
They have small brains
and large pelvises,
They have ape arms
and human hands,
which screws all the theories
about why we left the trees for the ground.
“They’re going to have to rewrite
the textbooks.”
I’m smoking out here on the porch
Listening to the interview;
It’s tough for my fundamentalist soul.
My father died in my arms, and...
nothing happened.
“If God didn’t exist, we’d have to invent him.”
A part of the brain, when magnetized,
makes God appear, and talk to you.
Ego, id, super-ego...
“cogito, ergo sum?”
Does my essence have substance?
Does it cower in the face of annihilation
and become inventive?
Will it live forever?
Ego, id, super-ego...
Will it it take the leap like Søren?
Will it leap for cosmic joy?

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