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Poem
THREE year olds know about circles. They play
ring around the rosy and here we go round
the mulberry bush. And if one should say 
that in reality nowhere is found
a perfect circle, they either don’t hear
or won’t buy it.  Yet.  Another year
or so they’ll eat the awful truth and then
conventional wisdom will slip right in
to its proper place and babyish why
will give way to unexamined lives. Sin
preached from pulpits at preschool shrouds PI.

POINT to the red stop circle. Here’s the way
to walk safely: keep one foot on the ground
at all times.  Slowly and steadily. Stay
between the lines and never let the sound
of  critical thinking distract your ear
from the sound of my voice. I love you, dear.
Trust me to tell you what you need know when
you need to know it.  I tell you, I’ve been
granted credentials. Listen to me, I
pledge allegiances, comfort and even
wealth.  Conformity’s requirements stifle PI.

ONE damp March morn, buzzards circled the gray
expanse of four-laned wasteland where a hound
dog had foolishly chased a dove away
from any sign of obedience. Mound
after mound of petrified organs.  Clear
chords rang out. But the harsh grind of the gear
of  market driven semis hauling men
and their pimp wares of lies told by vermin
with disposable fantasies rolled by 
and outscreamed the prelude of peace. The end
justifies. Wall Street domesticates PI.

FOUR the fourth time, circle in ink to play
lucky numbers. Fortune cookies abound
with their scratch off oracles of big pay
and tight buns and white cuspids.  Wrap-around
leather skirts lust for more time and sincere
pleas for help get downsized. Year after year,
oblivious to the tipping of win
or lose scales to the right and left to grin
and bear it. Occasional urge to cry
‘til imbalance seems natural. If your skin
crawls take medicine. Addictions cloud PI.

ONE nation under God circles to sway
one lord one faith one baptism?   Joshua downed
Jericho and Truman blessed Enola Gay
to drop her horrid load  Does it astound
anyone anymore?  Or has the fear
of death obscured sacred tidings of cheer 
and replaced them with slick prayers to low men
in high places?   Hallelujahs in thin
screechy voices.  Who will dare to ask why?
Blind patriotism and religion
unsupported by spirit torture PI.

AND SO ON TO INFINITY. Again
and again and again.  There’s never been
an end or even a pattern.  We fly
around in circles, unaware. But when
we wake, we will come face to face with PI.

~~~~~~~~~~

the capitalized first words in each stanza when taken together are pi
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