Our Terrible God, Consciousness

I awake each morning without intention

ever to announce the one thing that must

be said, "Do not indulge." No, I rise,

and life on purpose has been forgot,

often until 10 am or later. Worse,

I get it wrong at first. "Do not disturb."

5 days a week begin with a run.

I tell people a lot of things about it

(and they tell me they're impressed).

but not the truth: I outrun death.

I do. My body is a population;

the miles turn everyone to light.

But, rarely do I get the new day right,

as if awareness is an accident, and

we don't know how to fill our days

knowing. The world remains in place.

Constant. Agreed upon. Foretold.
We're still pet dogs to the real.

Once in a whle, though, it bends,

such as when a dead lizard spoke.

"Write what the world has to say."

It's dying of us. Bound to expire.

Reduced to begging. Beat.

Later, a hummingbird jumped

in front of me to make a quick point.

(Sorry, I can only do this for now.

I'll fill it in when I figure it out),

"__________________________

___________________________."

Hummingbirds like me now,

the way crows once did. No more.

They stand stoic tough as ex-cons

on a fence and give me the eye

until I pass. Up to something.

Unafraid of the next step.