White Pond

I stand beside, no, sit,
No, it’s just that I am
Beside a nameless pond,
Or rather, it has a name,
But I don’t know it yet.

This much I know: Electricity,
It resides, a lingering wire
Along an old railroad line.
Near Walden, Thoreau’s ghost
Is standing right beside me,
But I don’t know it yet.

Let me observe. That’s what
I do best: To the East, the wall
They call Atlantean; to the West,
A mighty mite mountain of dust
Remains unclimbed; the South,
Framingham, donut shops,
Phony malls, mills that send
Phosphates down the stream,
All the temporal things
We coil ourselves in as we
Give names and bar codes
To every teaming brook,
Book, photo snap and animal.

My stomach grumbles.
How I will feed it: Steak,
But I don’t know it yet.

To the North are witless warlords,
Mercenary media whores,
Slayers of the icons of polarity.
The winners, the losers, a blank page
That I can’t read yet. All I know
Is I am neither light nor dark,
And the barren moon
Is a fair maiden of death
that looms, a husk of loam
and nameless pillars of salt.
It is I. I just don’t know that yet.

My stomach grumbles
But I choose to swallow
The emptiness of a moonless cold,
Rather than just eat, as opposed to
Taking a big snatch out of life,
A mouthful of light, since energy
Is everywhere, right? In the tall pines,
Spindly trees, in the supposedly
useless leaves, in Indian summer slumps
Of swampy foam, the great houses
Beside the shore of the nameless pond,
The name of which I know not yet.

I just followed the wind here.
It was traceable in the mere
Swirl of leaves, all brown spirits,
Supposedly dead, brought to life
In an eternal returning from tree tops
To pine needles fallen to hide
The nameless track to Watertown,
But it’s in plain view, not hidden yet.

I am an angel. There are many others.
We are far more wired up and free
Than the bogged down corporations
Of fear, Sears shears, bulltets and gloom:
O pale and empty pathetic moon,
Your laser science cannot dissect,
Nor even connect to the southerly
Breeze of winter to come. Much less me.
Nor will you ever completely plunder,
Lineup, signup, gobble up or devour
Our slender curve of bonding synergy.

Someday, I’ll leave my life husk here.
My blue bubble will be on that swing,
Which is tied to this tree, I’ll let go,
And float above this no longer nameless
pond, no mere place near a poison sea.
I will be White Pond energy. When?
I just don’t know that, not quite yet.