16

Piling the Hand

Of what life I've gave I've seen nigh all it killed.

I'd rather such not be true of you as well.

Your ambiguity leaves to me what's willed,

Your ambivalence what truths to veil or tell.

Do you guide, yet not, that strength be in weakness?

Play you false, yet not, that I'll see what might buy?

How know you, common, yet untold uniqueness?

My foolish words you reflect and magnify,

I no more than a wand'ring bug on some Earth.

What to you am I who personify dearth,

Oft too much to me what's but before my nose?

Opposing what with next you pretend to fuse.

You are – it seems – both the meanings of “cleaving.”

Now forbidding, next freeing, to think taboos;

Now providing, next a path to my grieving,

I say “you” though perhaps many hear my rings:

Simpler to file a single category,

O'erwhelmed by all I know not of super things.

Yet, though it's you makes my life a great story –

I alone but a vain twit to be forgave –

I cannot tell it, nor what little that save.

Who'd not stake with blame, or loony tunes suppose?

Many sincerely pretend you don’t perplex.

Many damn to hell who more universe see,

“Normalcy” screwing on its make-believe specs.

As for me, without you I'm all tragedy,

Price of life more than I can do to pay it.

In this realm I'm alien, lone as this word,

Except through some phenomenon you say it.

My mouth is hurting now – we know what's occurred.

What want you who are great with least of the least?

By your command am I prospered or decreased.

By your power I am starved or I am fed.

Against your will I know not what could prevail.

Debate one may, but against your perfection

No reasoning merely human can avail.

Thus, being of yourself a poor reflection,

It's just I be dimmed, dull poems like this to scrawl.

Humble am I. When not think so it's pretend.

Yet some worth I must deduce – why else your call?

But what, or why? That is, I don't comprehend,

So little that I've trashed a day on this line.

I've nothing to say anymore. What refine?

I'm a beast of burden, with a brain of lead.

17

Debt that Pumps Without Rain

I will tell you the truth: this writing is shit.

I'll not something noble discover by chance,

Nor trade the ridiculous for higher wit.

By back of head I've worn Makin' Wind's pants.

I've been shown Acid by three holes in the same.

Then Makin' Wind made road, dump truck on its side,

'Pon which to a Kenworth, something strange, I came.

Everywhere I went creatures wore rabbit hide.

Upon inquiry, a “hoodoo hare” said, “Am.”

Kleenex, bow with arrows, and shades for the ham,

I've built and fed, as much told, nor without aid.

I deduce you've not liked many of my words.

So this I scratch, afraid to write as before.

To speak your presence I've, admittedly, turds.

So I keep it between us, closing that “door.”

I sometimes get angry. I'm so frustrated.

The free and easy I want doesn't exist.

Just to be me is war: too much elated,

A vain dope overrated, a venom hissed.

Well, as I've spent my life on belly crawling,

Plunging from where's been no height for falling,

You can't be much surprised at what hell has made.

What do I make of all such? I ask again.

Next anger, venom and shit come true: my word.

I say humans are shit – that's all I meet then.

Since the world orbits 'round phrases that I've stirred,

Since it mirrors my spellings as by command,

I'll accept praise and wealth, and good worthy of me.

Make it snappy – driving trucks I've long since damned.

I'll not fool if I say “blessed” poetry,

But that's better than the curse it's been to life,

With struggles the rest reaping nothing but strife.

Well, I was damned from birth, what do no matter.

It's a wonderful smell of waste you emit.

Please forgive these words of thanksgiving fell short.

Upon being flushed into the next cesspit

I may need a reserve, some good will to sport,

Like mankind, which to save, I'd not waste the time.

So what do I make of such? Not much today.

I'm ill of their worthlessness, ache of this “climb.”

Neither have you yourself had much of value to say.

Am I nobler, now, than the housefly I was?

Not my words alone make road. Not true, because

You choose from all that I place on a platter.

18

To Weasel Out of the Overflow Beneath

This to who brought me meat and water in hell:

I’m not much in the mood for this endeavor.

I write here neither popularly nor well,

Only to finish what seems can’t end, ever.

Knowing there’s more than what appears as space-time,

I’m yet in those ways not very developed.

I’ve spent the years cursing. But I think that no crime

Compared midst such in which I’m here enveloped.

Passion drives me, as well, with lust far from pure.

Though it seems medicine I know it’s no cure.

Well, if beauty is perfection marred or flawed

Then that I’m twice over and starting to rust.

Did I tell you are here a nut I’d be judged.

But your great importance doesn’t speak I must.

One understands by dog or horse being judged,

But it seems I’m fallen silent in this way.

Not so great, this sign language, as yours to see,

I’d rather do as you if something to say.

I don’t think I need forgiving. I’m not free.

I’m a runaway slave and that none can blame

But who are psychotic, who mangle and maim,

Pretending virtues that others will applaud.

I’ve been having troubles (dreams to the rescue).

I don’t see myself driving trucks much longer.

You know all the crap, anywhere nothing new.

Yet else I might do couldn’t be much wronger.

It’s you who brought me together with this truck.

I don’t despise that – your help can’t be measured.

But pay’s gotten worse and with evils I’m struck.

Gifts, age and work find me meagerly treasured:

I have next to nothing to show for my years –

If karma exists not through this life it steers.

Well, I’ve been blessed with health, but done with it what?

No one is safe here. Harm can strike any time.

And that’s what people do best, I thus lone.

What else I’d do they’d call a crime, so I climb.

Yet to recall being helped I keep a stone,

And through humans you gave me meat and water.

I don’t know how. I don’t know why. Thus this poem.

A great computer game arrived. I bought her.

‘Less you’ve else for me to do, Old Penny’s home.

The faceless Millionaire could then write real checks.

As I’m yet baffled as to presence and sex,

Think you that way I may build, your food be wrought?

19

Secure Skin Without Spine

I have a plant which hides a wound from the sun.

The breeze gets in my face, the only I like.

The law sits next to me – I’m trapped, want to run.

Midst mankind ten minutes I’m ready to strike.

I write to you with too much to say – I’m dumb.

I’d not thought the supernatural would come,

Nor known greater consciousness exists to tell.

Now that I do, I’ve a fix. You know it well:

Less one has of money more one has of hell.

That’s the system here. I doubt it will soon change.

Meanwhile, I play hero, that I’ve less of guilt,

While the Holy Spirit nigh all Earth condemns,

And compelling simple truths are made to wilt.

Shall I risk shame to publish what are not gems,

Though who disrespect me are blind punks of hell?

Make I this world a better place as I am,

Or do I your gifts more beare ringing the bell?

Perhaps my flowing joy waits behind a dam.

I’d like to write you some dancing, laughing verse.

But I’m oppressed by being small, so I’m terse.

Well, pleasing you pleases me. That please arrange.

20

Conditioning Node Missing an Inferior Product

They say it’s going to be a long cold winter.

You know me: I want to stay home and be spoiled.

(Well, the other psyche’s vain. She’d mint her

Profile on T-bills, complete with snakes uncoiled.)

I’ve so long had so much on the back hot plates

That, even free, it would take a hundred years

To finish what, due to starving, yet awaits,

Or what time makes so much dirt behind the ears.

Who arrive here, you’ve said, are born to feeling,

All the aliens pains and passions dealing –

Is not forgiveness the judge of intercourse?

Many humans, though, are worth less than house flies.

To who I curse deliver justice Godspeed.

And bless who I bless, for at that I’ve good eyes.

Meanwhile, since I write to be done with the deed,

I won’t commit this to memory either.

The Evil cycle was easily written,

Not at all what from that would take a breather.

Yet by the first I’d not so cursed, Good-bitten.

Seems ‘tween “Good” and “Evil” there’s an intersource.

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