61

Parading Not

I suspect in many realms are many great.

Would it be who I love encompassed them all,

For I know not who opens or shuts the gate

Due to one love arise, another afall.

Benefactors, first kind, on whom I depend,

I know your genius and power are unknown,

Yet in but a molecule might you attend.

Well, I but wanted to praise you, something share –

Already child, genius, music you respond;

Already twixt machine, math, spirit, some bond,

Yet somehow a freedom perchance called a soul.

And now – nothing, all as pointless as can be,

Due not to me, but the way Genius wants it.

So I finish this poem, a way to agree.

Do as one might, but if Genius daunts it

One might as well sleep, for useless all becomes.

Thus does life become but a waiting to die.

Put you brain to math – but zeros be the sums;

Design, build ten airplanes – they will never fly;

Awake, produce – all you work shall be in vain

If Genius decides to nothing you’ll attain.

62

Wandering Ghost Waiting with Another Lecture

I’ve not felt too well these last few weeks or so.

Depression, frustration, physically old,

As like a force greater than me is my foe.

I yet stand, without mold, but can’t seize the gold.

I’d go Italy – I need a vacation –

But who to trust to care of the magic:

The plants, which guess not their great – to me – station?

I’d have writ an easier rhyme, since “tragic”

I’d remove from the dictionary if could,

And the simpler, these years, all for which I’m good.

But it too tries me, the easy. Now it’s done.

Morons would think I write poems to recite them.

The paradox is that I write to forget.

I here raise a hem but to chop off a stem.

What I’d to get beyond I trap in this net.

I wrote, ‘pon a time, to make something occur.

Indeed, much had, mighty cudgels to my brow.

Now I write but to halt a spoon in a stir.

But beatings cease not. Nor know I why, nor how.

My guess is entertainment, like bear baiting.

Well, as I say, I yet stand, not yet waiting

For the mean-trained to do off who could have won.

63

No Paste

Some say poets are the masters of love,

Which may be proof that never a poem wrote I.

Much of below know I, not much of above,

Nor can see some why to be bolder than shy.

But it’s not love, joy, praise inspires me this way.

It is fear for lack of hope, for lack of faith,

As no money assures love will not see day.

Well, who to self is true, thus love, is not a wraith?

Perhaps money buys more distraction than core.

I’m not convinced, though, that less comes to more

Of much but distance from naught at all decreased.

Since closeness to naught at all increases pain,

Excuse me I not put such as love to rhymes.

Enough an easy half foot what rhymes I chain,

Greater challenge I leave to less weathered times.

Once a time I preferred a clear head to write.

Once a time more worth than sleep I thought such had.

Now I wait for alcohol, nothing alight,

Couldn’t care less if done well, don’t care if bad –

It’s poetry, what it’s for: no worth greater.

Love and worth hap at once. Thus I’m this prater.

Are we alike? How? Each too poor, now increased?

64

Onus of a Percentage

Not since times now ancient I cursed through each day,

Until yesterday, now ancient, anger spoke.

Odd, considering the problems ‘long the way,

Much greater than a big truck stopped, something broke.

I laid down the elephant a few days past

To see if it would better stand. Strong it is.

Stand? Will grow to the unseen stars, deep, high, cast.

Looks hard, yet he but does what to do is his:

Worries not – by nature he’ll accomplish it.

As for late constant loss, when did I wish it,

Genius? I thought we were attuned. I guess not.

The elephant, though, is nigh vertical now.

Time passes peaceful, now the ceilings are cleaned –

Would t’were clearance to the bright upon late bow:

More I’ve rattled the bars the more I’ve been leaned.

“Careful” she said. How that and not keep in bed?

No light here or there, pinball bouncing I’ve done,

Would seem to prove it’s the machine itself dead.

No ring here or there, but the ropes that I’ve won,

Would seem prove me fighting, not loving as aimed.

Why, Genius, disagree you that good be samed?

Better like the elephant, greater less not.

65

Calm Outrage Engineering Yet Another Inefficient Bush

The supposed masterpiece yet to arrive,

I waste away the days, pumping of my heart,

Concept of reaching, a womb’s work unalive.

I’ve naught against waking – I but can’t press Start

With it vanishing upon every approach.

So I dream away the days. Let others rush

To their prosperities; the plant is my coach.

Can’t say ferns rocket, but their luxury lush

Is as I have become in water and soil.

Perhaps like a serpent I lie low and coil,

Awaiting my meal to startle me from sleep.

Never, I’m sure, have I been quite this lazy.

My lids droop, I grow heavy and soar at once –

By my floating thoughts most would deem me crazy,

By my yawns one could think a cat one confronts,

Belly full, not caring when I again stir.

“It is four o’clock” the voice, sudden, now tells.

“What of it?” I reply. “Shall something occur

I should care its lights blink, it roars, it wears bells?

I shall move soon enough, part of the machine,

When my gears to engage again it is keen.

‘Til then I blend with sand at the bottom of the deep.”

66

Of Disrupted Disgusting Crop

A poet might address lightning or thunder?

Poetry is what happens when there is none,

When it is passed, having left one awonder,

When it’s leveled one’s doing, left one astun.

Listen not, nor look, the flash and rolling slow

Which find us surprised, not interpreting well.

Not but time’s instants does the powerful glow,

But such as distance closes, rising what fell.

You are an atom, my friend, a universe,

So great electric you note not your own purse.

What’s within is without you, what’s without in.

Quiet this moment that a bursting pass through –

I love you, Genius, I oft too speeding to

Savor the spice, to sense your breath that makes two,

I oft too slow to note what your breeze blew.

God help me – I cannot but pretend to know.

No exercise, smoke too much, drink too much beer,

And be I lightning I’m not sure where to flow.

No hero I;  ‘nough to be as I am mere.

Do I resemble myself? What are the facts?

I’ve read I’m a part through what a greater acts.

Unto what, then, this poem which nothing can win?

67

Discouraging Contest of a Possessed Mole

I intend this the last poem I ever write.

Farewell be it not, but to better greeting.

Yet this moment my finger a thorn does bite –

Shall untold we be, as like never meeting?

I have meanwhile come to like what I’ve hated.

I have meanwhile become bolder with some facts –

You know, that mad zone I’ll here call elated.

Yet I quiver, that you are real, one who acts.

The meanwhile two branches do as each other,

Of common root, vines crossing one another.

What might such math, such geometry tell me?

Do two pedals turn ‘round a common axis?

Just what’s the significance I cannot tell,

Can’t give you a theory, much less a praxis

As I try to find gear, my shifting pell-mell.

Smiling apes, little girls, dreaming kittens

Are very special, but they don’t pay the rent.

I’ve worked ‘til no more could, got back a pittance.

Would there were cash in something greater I’m meant.

What that is I know not, only that you’re here.

I don’t understand so I think as is mere.

Well, first is last, last first – guess I’ll pour some tea.

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