Incantation
Words for an Unclear Spell
Sheila Miles Streaming Light, forthcoming cover of Word Salad
The heroic journey begins for those who open their eyes or ears or whatever sensory trigger they have that tells them they are here, they are alive and along for the ride on this carousel of mud and tears. Whatever comes next is the trip. We are all seeking the revelation of the next minute. We make of it what we will whether we will it or not. Being thrust into this experience, what we call life, is heroic just by riding it out.
Phil Cousineau, who edited Joseph Campbell’s The Hero’s Journey, told Campbell of an epigram he read on a Boothill Cemetery grave marker in a Tombstone, Arizona, that said: “Be what you is, cuz if you be what you ain’t, then you ain’t what you is.” “That’s it!” Campbell replied, “That’s the mystery of the journey . . . just marvelous!” It’s heroic because it takes courage to be “what you is.” Especially when others are pressuring you to “be what you ain’t!”
this could be the way
the eighth incarnation
of vanilla cedilla
(so sweetly mispronounced
beneath your imagined sombrero
as “suh-dee-ya” because
it sounds better as a Spanish
mystery than an “el-lite”
French consonant fallen out
of fashion) and will probably be
more charming than alarming
that would be your guess
but you wouldn't put money on it
stake your life
savings that you know
diddly-shit about profit or
prophets of any robe
if you look to the stars
stammering at the kitchen table
over their fourth or fifth glass
about their literary exasperations
their utter contempt for
those brown-nosed climbers
of the academic lattice
blossoming on the pages of
university presses, that blooming
future on the cutting edge
of yesterday's dim bulbs
that gilded-glib glee-club
it isn't much different
than those piking ball-lickers
who disappear every time
you have to pull file cabinets
out of a basement, face it
they're smarter than you
still swilling and fumbling along
sweating each task at hand
to get to happy hour and buy
a round without cashing your 401k
that shiny nickel you jumped for
hurdling a living wage
they say that voting republican
is better for a man going gray,
that old age is the time to get serious
about your dough and everything
else, but you don't see how
this could be the way
certainly it is or will be
what it is when you get there
like now and now and then again
how could the way
be any clearer or less
of an enigma than death
which is coming of course
or waiting or whatever
it does until that time it shows up
and hauls your ass away
your way the highway
today a vision overdosing
on prescription hindsight
why not shoot the moon tonight
foresight is that blind two-step
into tomorrow
cuz after a full belly
and a place to sleep
all we really want is to smile
to laugh, to get our bones
rocked one way or another
and this could be the way
writing poems into the toothy
science of yesterday
singing shadows into dreams
making up stories for the team
you want to believe
you matter more than matter
that your desire to know, to go, to see
to be, to express your awareness
is all you've got, baby, what's important
to you is what fucking matters . . . to me
so feel your way along, you are
stumbling through alone
your dalliance in the unknown
what you un-re-dis-cover
could mean something
could change your life
but probably not
diddly-shit still matters to you
your way should be your waythis could be the way, 2026, FootHills Publishing
One of our biggest problems is not being completely sure of “what you is.” That’s okay. We are constantly discovering new shit, becoming aware of things we didn’t know before. It’s okay to change. Every moment things change. The key is being honest about our experience. Or as my Old Man put it to me, “You can shit me, but you can’t shit yourself.” We know when we are lying to ourselves. So, sometimes in this radically rapid-changing world, our language fails us. Actually, it never gets it completely right, it’s the best that we can do after practicing the Golden Rule.
That’s why poetry never provides a nice, neat answer, which makes it a problem for anyone who is determined to find that absolute answer that will provide certainty (until it reveals itself to be flawed). My old coach used to say the only certainties were “death and taxes.” Cute, witty, but wrong. And though we really don’t know what death is, we can mostly agree that we are certainly going to experience it. Maybe that’s why it’s such a popular topic: everything comes back to death. It’s the only thing we can agree on. How we react to it is very different and (like everything else) will change.
Brotherhood
—for Chris La Tray
Even when poetry promises
to keep the monsters at bay,
kisses both our eyes
before tucking us in
and leaves the door cracked
open so we can hear murmuring
voices, noises from the kitchen
or living room, maybe the TV's light
spilling its wedge of a stage
across the floor, shadows swirling,
jumping, as you try to ignore . . . it,
those who/what waiting in the dark
to pull you back to oblivion.
Even when you think poetry
can befriend Old Nick,
the guardian of time and order,
it winds up hanging with
the likes of religious types
and intellectual knowers of
worthwhile worthlessness.
Even when poetry dances around
those pigeonholes, somersaults
down the terrace, wades barefoot
in the frog pond, and runs
down to the river or up the mountain
chasing wind, the sun, a song,
or when it falls exhausted to stare
into the shifting blue wonder,
heart pounding, oaring the boat,
your chest riding tides of breath,
when it relaxes, closes its eyes . . .
Even then sweet poetry,
the language of now
will fail as certainly as its dark
twin's black-assed-verse
clamoring on endlessly
about death's inevitability—
familiar siblings you love
and claim . . . still this
tumultuous mess bathes blindly
some deep brotherhood within us.Brotherhood, 2026, FootHills Publishing
If we live into our 90s or to whatever age mental or physical decrepitude sets in, death is welcome, a blessing, and a friend. It provides relief for the worn out. But if it shows up too early or unexpectedly, the son-of-a-bitch is a cruel thief who punishes all those who love and depend upon the victim. I think it’s good to experience death early, as a kid, because it’s a wake-up call to live every day to the fullest, to be aware and enjoy all of your experience, pleasure or pain. You know tomorrow is not guaranteed, so you appreciate today.
I’m just here to take it all in. I don’t have a plan. And if I have a personal ethos, I guess it is trying to love and be kind: don’t fuck with anything and help when you can. I’m also a big fan of humor. Laughter and tears are expressions of love. That’s what makes sense to me. but that could change. Heh-heh. Who knows? Not me. At least not for you. So, enjoy your trips, heroes!
Heroes
It takes guts
to be a bum
It takes balls
to go your own way
To check out
of the game
Refusing to play
is a monk's life
It is a struggle
to go it alone
Cut off from the pack
the crowd the rest
Who write you off
who shut you out
For taking the risk
that road not usually taken
They despise you
for defining your life
For controlling time
and claiming freedom
It takes courage to be
a bum an outcast a drunk
The group pities you
and shuns you though
They're quietly humbled
and resentfully envious
By your choice of
Liberty over comfort
It shames their efforts
to help you back
Into the fold where
none of them want to beSister Buffalo, 2024, FootHills Publishing