On the Creation of Knowledge - Shaya Bock

Entering the jungle

Meaning leaves

And unable to see

I open the foliage

With machete

Still unable to see 

Any light

Swinging wildly

Hacking leaf to folio

I make a sort of mess

Of quartos all around,

A bed of already-dead

Yet-green leaves

Smothering seed.

The Television-Glow

Lost in the trail

Between my hands

Map

The route 

Where there is a memory 

somewhere here

Deep within the bush, of a place

Only not-visited 

Once in an old dream.

You never would listen to the story

-- Hansel and Gretel --

You didn’t leave a backtrack

Trail of breadcrumbs

Or perhaps the pigeons, 

Scurrying for a smidgen,

Made a mess of it all,

The jungle lingers

A dram 

Of some soured liquor,

A dip in the sap

Staining your fingertips:

The oil of novelty.