The centuries are conspirators
against the sanity and authority
of the soul.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
As the old century closed
and I resigned myself to climb
the acclivity of the new –
like a muzhik forever fixed
in his lower track, or how
a withdrawn Australian cattle dog
can still herd stock as apt
and insistent as instinct –
my conscription in this Argive-like
quest continued: oracled, unquestioned,
acyclic, amaranthine, no aah
emanating from any tower
of babble. Thus classified
acclimatizer, fated never
to upbraid my elders
or disobey my betters, how,
Waldo, will I ever become
more conscious? As ungainly,
as audacious, as an amateur,
as dicey as a tyro? So
awkward and awakened?
So goddamned sapient?