The Pail Horse

by Throwswords

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I've hitched my wagon to this beast, 

and we're both pointed west or east,

and when he moves I know at least

that I'm not where I was.

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He wears a bucket, just like me,

over his head so he can’t see

how bad the future’s gonna be

‘cause that would kill our buzz.

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I hear the desert’s overrun

by spiders, snakes, coyotes and sun,

but I ain’t seen a single one,

and neither has my horse.

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Now, we can tell the night from day,

but not what evil’s in our way.

No, that’s too steep a price to pay

just to stay on course.

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You say we’re headed for a cliff.

There’s no sense asking why or if.

I like to keep my worldview stiff

like gently sloping tin.

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Feels like we’re headed up a hill.

Well, so much for the rumor mill.

I guess you ain’t heard looks can kill.

Now, where do I begin?

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Just in case you need reminders

why race horses wear those blinders:

Take a mare, say there behind her,

she thinks she sees a threat.

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Why, that old filly freaks right out

and throws her jockey all about.

He’s eating grass like sauerkraut.

That horse ain’t a safe bet.

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Instead of running with the pack,

she tries to foil a sneak attack.

That’s why there’s no sense looking back.

Just leave it all behind.

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And it’s why good times just don’t last

when you go digging in the past.

You’ll get upset and left aghast

by all the snakes you find.

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Like, for example, take this tree:

It’s got no use for history.

To find its past, first step would be

to cut the thing in half.

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Even if the tree grew eyes and

saw the smoke on the horizon,

all its inner rings advisin’

can’t do much to make it laugh.

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‘Cause every tree in nature learns

that everything in nature burns.

The rings, the snakes--they take their turns

just like the worms that eat them.

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So put your worries on their shelves,

and trust the forest to the elves.

In time, the snakes will eat themselves.

There’s no need to defeat them.

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When you see the world upending,

close your eyes and start pretending

‘cause there ain’t no point defending

the forest from the trees.

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Self destruction is our nature.

We set fire to nomenclature,

which ignites our legislature

at three hundred-some degrees.

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Then that tornado, cloaked in fire,

stoked by revolting mob desire,

burns through the pulpit and the choir

‘cause nobody’s immune.

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Maybe if we all deny it,

we can keep those echoes quiet. 

We can dance around the riot

if we all sing the same tune.

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But you squawking like a raven,

calling our locked steps enslavement,

they’ll all say you caused the cave in

when all the bricks start falling.

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They ignore foundations crumbling,

but they’ll see the buildings tumbling.

When the stampede starts a-rumbling,

they’ll know the lion’s calling.

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The mountain lion stalks its prey

the way we’re stalked by yesterday--

just like a cat--and that’s to say,

it takes us by surprise.

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You can spend your life in study--

try to make the cat your buddy;

In those patient paws, you’re putty,

like a mouse with two bad eyes.

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So why don’t I just look ahead

and check for cats under my bed?

Did you not hear a word I said?

The future’s not your friend!

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It’s like the past but in reverse,

except that it contains a hearse.

Without a question, future’s worse.

It starts you at the end.

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As sure as any ghost says ‘boo,’

That creeping car’ll come for you.

It takes your horse and wagon too.

There ain’t no quid pro quo.

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Fools like you ask how and when,

but how ‘bout asking, “How ya been?”

or, “What’d ya watch on CNN?”

That’s all we’re meant to know.

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Our neighbors ask, ”How do you do?”

And sure and any cow says moo,

We say, “just fine,” and then it’s through.

It’s small talk, short and sweet.

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But if you say they’re gonna die,

or tell them how the news men lie,

you can forget the apple pie--

just shouting in the street.

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They don’t want the knowledge bombin’

of a self-appointed shaman.

You just keep your knowledge common.

Let the sherpas do the sherping.

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You’re not obliged to spread the word

of grand cabals you haven’t heard.

So swat away that little bird

the second it comes chirping.

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I’ve got no use for scandal.

I meet villain, thief or vandal,

I just pull down on my handle

and try to take a snooze.

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I prob’ly haven’t been ransacked.

My wagon’s prob’ly still intact

along with everything I packed.

At least, there’s I.O.U.’s.

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So here, I’m trying to unwind

and you’ve approached me from behind

to call me conspiracy blind.

Now, how’s that make me feel?

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I much prefer a friendly chat.

I’ve found most folks can handle that.

My world can change from round to flat

by popular appeal.

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But trendy truths can change quickly.

Core beliefs are best held fickley. 

I’d view the world cylindrically

if experts said I should.

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Settled scholarly solutions

euthanize our gut conclusions.

They’re upheld by institutions.

Television’s good.

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Getting popular permission

before shifting my position

isn’t dissonant cognition.

It’s just shifting blame.

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So on we ride, the bucket twins,

advised by flies and shifting winds,

and nobody can judge our sins

because we’ve got no aim.

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So far, we’ve been scorn resistant

on the wide road to the distant,

inflexibly inconsistent

Earthly paradise.

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Heaven forbid we’re called a name,

or find out that the world’s untame,

that feral foxes fixed the game

and swapped our steaks for lice.

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I’m tied to this beast and draggin’

half the world inside my wagon.

When I say this, I’m not braggin’:

I am at my peak.

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You solve your rusty rubik’s cube,

but don’t ask me for tools or lube.

I’m in a trapezoidal tube

that echoes when I speak.

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Your arguments are bound to fail.

My friend, you’re speaking to a pail.

You’ll wind up dead or stuck in jail

if you can’t shut your mouth.

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The system is a complex maze

that you could navigate for days

and never understand its ways.

So who needs north or south?

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Bar the gates and climb the fences.

Navigate by group consensus.

Let’s extol our mass pretense as

unifying force.

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We’re so much better as a group,

all soaking in suggestion soup.

So invert that tin water scoop

and bucketize your horse.

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The world’s too busy chasing goals

to chase your spiders down their holes.

We hide our heads in handled bowls

so we can keep our focus.

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And if your spiders could be tracked,

they’d spin their webs and make a pact

with half of us, so when attacked,

we’d thank them when they broke us.

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I’ve heard it said, “Follow the cash.”

But what you’ll find before you crash.

Are answers like ‘click’, ‘boom’ and ‘splash.’

With leverage comes the law.

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Salute the flag with changing stripes.

Ideals are meant for archetypes.

Your dreams have spiders in their pipes.

Abandon and withdraw.

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Don’t ask why, and never follow

snakes and spiders to their hollow.

There’s no way I’d ever swallow

your Socratic panacea.

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My path ain’t exploratory.

Insight is for allegory.

I don’t want to end my story

using onomatopoeia.

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I’ll ignore the tales you’re telling.

You ignore the smoke you’re smelling.

Just start buying what they’re selling,

and lose the tinfoil hat.

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As you can see, the road ahead

is long and straight, just like I said.

Don’t fear the path so many tread.

Forget about the cat.

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'Cause all your curiosity

can't match its furiosity.

Are we gaining velocity?

What’s this!? The cliff appears!!

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Hold on! The horse hooves lost their beat,

and my rearend's just left its seat!

The world's so far below our feet!

I'm gonna plug my ears.