If You Know, You Know

 
You know you're only mortal and not a god

           but that doesn't mean you know nothing 

about how language is right now being used 

           to camouflage ignorance as virtue, villainy

as self-control, avarice as acumen. Whole 

           planes collide mid-air or roll over in flames 

on the tarmac. Lawyers stutter I don't know 

           rather than tell the truth. Sure they know. 

Of course we know things. And we know it takes 

           balls to admit the truth of what you said

you didn't see coming, until the shadow of 

           a beach umbrella transforms lickety split,

darkly flaring over your head. Drop your chili

           lime margarita and sunblock— it's cobra hoods 

all the way down. (That's actually the name 

           of a line of garments designed for tactical 

concealment, though I meant the actual viper 

           drawing its head back before the strike.) 

In old tales, not all serpents are sinister. 

           Think of doctor-healer Aesculepius and his 

snake-encircled caduceus: Zeus killed him 

           with thunderbolts, afraid of how his science

brought humans back from the brink of death. 

           If you don't want to be a myth, be a mystery 

—but the kind that doesn't stifle the wonder 

           out of stars and stones and fir-clad 

forests. Don't be a thug or a bully or a dick.