Member Poem

The world swirls
like some crazed wounded beast,
like a still writhing octupus tentacle on a plate
that delighted diners
in some hellish Korean resteraunt
on a tv food show
stuff into their gaping beaks. the so-called world,
when I give it my attention,
recreates itself endlessly,
like the boy with his finger in the dyke
through which, wherever his panicked gaze settles,
suffering seeps.
At first we do not choose
what catches our eye, our heart,
it happens unbidden
but later, we may begin to
watch where our attention goes.
Both weariness and pragmitism
tell me I cannot make my stand
anywhere in
this passing show
the contradictions too vast,
the smiling killers to many,
attention flitting from image to image
too fickle
strife and striving bounce
like ricocheting bullets
in the hollow solitude of what
moves us and what leaves us indifferent
clearly
I must look elsewhere
beyond name and form
for an unassailable mercy