56

To Compassion Yet

Gonna miss you, old truck, if I can’t buy you.

Always did perfect even when you broke down.

‘Tween trucking and me there ain’t a lot of glue.

But what’s gen’rally a prison town to town

You make a pleasure as we fly with the birds.

As for your need of a bath, let’s wait some more.

Some might think your dirtiness beyond words,

But it’s cheaper just to wait for rain to pour.

Well, we’ve sure been through some rough situations,

In deserts and Earth’s colder elevations.

But I need to puke trucking out of my life.

“My” life – s’long as I’m forced to truck not my own.

I work for thieves and deliver to the same.

Too many four-wheelers to hell need be shown.

The guilty go free; the trucker gets the blame.

But a day soon come the sun will rise for me.

I’ll kiss off the crap and be, finally, free.

The general, meanwhile, cannot taller be,

So grows from the bottom, sun better to see.

Likes to grow but bows his head ‘cause he’s poor, too.

Meanwhile, old truck, you know, as well, that it’s true

That were trucking and I wed I’d kill my wife.

57

To No One

Aren’t you something, black crow, master with the wind,

Making the force that’s against you your power,

Without flapping a wing, nor frustration, pinned

Like this line to this page, aft half an hour.

Your laws and government better than humans’,

You don’t hit me with asinine, steal my pay,

Deny simple facts half a brain illumines.

Nor do you pick cotton: you’re a runaway.

Meanwhile, I’ve a hat I’d like to start wearing,

But that it ain’t true yet, the patch it’s bearing.

So, planning my next escape, I watch you soar.

I’m not new to running, getting whipped each time.

But you’ve gotta do something, else you live dead.

Thus frustration’s anger is my greatest crime.

Though I’d be just as damned ‘pon lechery said,

Can it buy progress why ought I despise it?

Do who would blame such care rich life be a slum?

Positive thinking, ‘midst death that denies it,

I flee from the numbed who accept dumbed their sum.

Show me, crow, how to fly, not trapped again I –

Why be bound cotton-low when there’s so much sky?

Why accept fate’s lot when but one sun shows more?

58

Satellite Tough

One who has been good to me, I am troubled.

You know all the whats and whys, nothing hidden.

Sane – back in the truck – though greasy and stubbled,

Every breath a curse ‘pon problems unbidden,

Jungle’s lunacy seems so more convenient.

Yet I love to be out here: you and the cows –

More at peace (now), perfection more lenient,

Even as I’m stiffer than conscience allows –

I don’t know why, usually don’t permit it.

Yet now I curse again, writing that lit it.

Such my simple thoughts, know what why they’d much count.

Nothing profound do I amuse anymore.

Unto what? Entertainment? Understanding?

Damnation? And the arts? But a pointless chore.

Now it’s the cop and his turbo commanding,

Soon a melody whistled by a trailer.

And now ingratitude finds me exploded

Into a realm I alone cannot tailor.

Yet is there a gracious kindness here coded,

Which some may call evil but I must call good,

Which be Such my head bared, which be Such my hood

Is Fount of Genius more than my own amount.

59

Member

Independence Day came earlier this year.

Can’t say if it’s a blessing in disguise.

Yes, Genius, I fear, though thus far somehow steer,

Seeming in sync although the timing surprise:

It is you, Genius, I myself unable.

It is you, beyond words, good to the simple,

Yet who holds a voice box that’s been my table:

Oh, please smile – put in my own cheek a dimple:

If be me, and I you, all would be so fine!

Yet, your greatness, not mine, that we intertwine –

Oh, leave me not: you know how humble I kneel.

No glory in these cosmos equal to you,

Yet squeeze you mud through your toes, fly with the bugs,

Involve yourself with all the lost that you view,

Accept for royal carpet torn and worn rugs –

In an unfathomable ghost I believe.

Thus, though Independence Day sooner arrive,

Be I yet a thread in the fabrics you weave –

How beautiful you are, both dead and alive.

Greatest honor and respect clearly due you –

Even as play the naughty child, say the least –

Show me, Genius, how we shall realize the real.

60

Of a Cooking Cry

I have filled my life with words: I’ve endeavored.

The Higgs boson, the Theory of Everything,

The pat key that solves understanding evered,

So, too, myself, trampled feather of a wing.

Come Sun, self-decreasing, to be friend to me,

Yet a wonder, even alike this caved bat,

To fill a junked pot with divinity’s tea.

Yet I fear – is it in the crystal, this new hat?

Eye throughout the sky blow the breeze that I fly.

I see treasure or this path I’d not try.

But neither lamp nor star does glow without you.

I said I was slow out the gate: seems I’m quick.

Please not let me be damned to hell again.

How win I see not, but it’s you lights my wick.

You are the invisible ink in this pen,

You are the ghost who blesses deserts with rain,

My parent who I think can do anything,

Can raise dust to empire, can make losses gain.

Be you not a vanity to whom I cling –

Be you not a fire that burns to ash, but bakes bread.

You know for your miracles I’ve just the head –

Put your fine foot in me I’ll make rich shoe.

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