The meaning of life, if there is such,
is certainly more
than longings for eternal death.
The body’s delight, when dancing say,
is as meaningful – or as absurd –
as a revelation of oboes braying mournfully
over plinking angelic harp strings.
What is it about some ill defined
celestial paradise,
populated by lithe, unsullied virgins,
that is finer than
languishing naked in a team shrouded
hot-spring in the Bitterroot Mountains?
Surely there is more joy in a lamb
capering through a rocky meadow
than obsessing over a lamb’s blood
dripping from a cross.
Let the dead bury the dead.
Is it more eloquent
to imagine one-eyed Odin
in his ice-bound hall, eternally
swilling mead with dead heroes,
or to swallow the shriveled up worm
from dregs of a mescal bottle
and glassy-eyed, savor the smell
of red peppers
slowly roasting?
