Blood Lines

January 10, 1999
(last edited on April 7, 2006)

“Better not tell you now”
the Magic Eight Ball says—
better not end the journey
before I’ve figured out the damn question.
Or even asked it.
Or even honestly said all I know about it.
That’s what I get for picking up Magic Eight Ball
Without asking a question;
It just reads my mind and invades my thoughts,
Choosing the dark and intriguing recesses.

The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children
Unto the seventh generation;
The eighth generation are the artists and the poets
And the philosophers
And those who try desperately
To not spawn seven, fourteen, twenty-eight more.

The eighth are the lonely who smile in a crowd.
The eighth are the dry who drink away the unbearable.
The eighth are the happy whose mask hides profound melancholy.
The eighth are the hypocritical healers, themselves living in pain.
The eighth are the misunderstood who quietly enjoy the ambiguity.
The eighth are the actors who go on no stage.
The eighth are the insomniacs who sleep when they are frustrated.
The eighth are the frustrated who cannot wake.

The eighth are those who do right and cannot explain why.
The eighth are those who wail at the stars and embrace the night.
The eighth are those who love until the illusion is shattered.
The eighth are those who love even beyond the illusion.
The eighth are those who toss themselves to the tides of future’s past.
The eighth are those who dream for fear of waking.
The eighth are those who fear sleep, for if they dare dream…
The eighth are those who are mirthful in the face of convention.

The eighth are loved by the understanders, who are lying.
The eighth are loved by the understanding, who are trying.
The eighth are loved by the rare, who are precious.
The eighth are loved by the seventh, who are vicious.
The eighth are loved by the universe, which is them.
The eighth are loved by each other, if they could recognize another.
The eighth are loved by themselves, which is fleeting.
The eighth are loved by no one, the eternal companion.

The eighth are the furious and the free and the beautiful and the bonded,
Who fight amongst themselves; for only among ourselves
Are we free to live our dramas.

What is the question, Magic Eight Ball?
“Yes…
…Definitely.”
You sound like me, Magic Eight Ball.