21

Curse Not

As you know, poetry and trucking don't mix.

Nor do lechery and trucks. Nutshell succinct.

Then let's use these lines some illnesses to fix,

Blessings bestow, honors do, for here inked.

To my father have come the cares of old age.

Have he no fear, be applauded and admired.

My mother, too, arrives to that latter stage.

Be she safe, not alone, her presence desired.

My sister has troubles not here to relate.

Be she healthy, lively and loved by her mate

Who she blesses, too, triumphant their marriage.

Her husband be wealthy and his pains be healed.

Let his dark-haired daughter, not yet living,

Be free from her past and good fortune be dealed.

Let his light-haired daughter, working and giving,

Be prosperity and a beauty to see.

Again, my father be wise and wealthy grow.

My mother well-esteemed and greatly praised be.

My sister breathe deep and with good humor glow.

Her husband's eyes be bright, youth's vigor returned.

Their dark daughter's mind shine brilliant and discerned,

And their light girl rich, and lovely in carriage.

22

Culture Versus Structure

I just wrote a poem that had a little worth.

That's kind of different for me, isn't it?

If by my word there be fortunes given birth,

Then my poetry be given wisdom's wit.

If my poetry be prescience of what comes

Then health and wealth I expect, just now engraved.

But my heart's to write what you think grapes and plums.

Then your genius and your power this shave wave.

But for yourself, all I've reaped from words is hell –

Yet do I struggle midst hate one truth to tell.

Deliver me from enemies who spite you,

For evil done to me maltreats you the same.

Let's move on, then, achieve more than they can do.

Shame upon them, accusations to their blame

As to a palace we change my point of view.

From where I sit I have one purpose in two:

Leave this planet better than to which I came

And enjoy your gifts meanwhile. Such are due.

Please direct me, be ours privileged, be ours fame.

I live to please you though I curse, hide, fumble.

Long an expert at falling from pits humble,

You'd think to some height I'd be blown, something new.

23

Your Calculating Autobiography

I think of the legacy that I leave.

To hear such no doubt many wealthy could laugh.

But I've seen your “miracles” and I believe.

You know my problem: legacy half and half:

Material worth, of which I've almost none,

And words with which I've the opposite trouble,

Nor written popularly, nor by some nun.

There's one for your genius: trouble that's double –

Each alone seems daunting to me as can be.

Most my life it's been hell that didn't come free.

To whom what I leave what is otherwise be.

I have no children. I was too poor for that.

Here's the child once arrived I couldn't kick out.

Yet idealistic, an original cat,

Yet true to the core which s-he fears to stick out,

Yet a pauper obscure, her parent as well.

A born prostitute, I've yet to permit it –

One way or the other we're condemned to hell.

Then come your seal. Though do my best to fit it

These problems remain dilemmatic, the same.

Good and evil each in the other, the claim

To me, between rivals, I can't make agree.

24

Elaboration Across a Percentage

Dishistory or history through this lane?

Are these grave-bound bones which I polish and trump?

Even so, they are such as not to disdain.

For not with “but” words is this poetry plump,

But with supernatural utility,

A directing of prophetic investments,

Thus of a mystic profitability.

Just so are these words historical vestments,

Of a past to arrive of what I announce.

The teaching is this: what we write or pronounce

The Brain performs, as we will later recall.

Such less dishonesty than honesty fits:

The Brain knows all the bones that we've got, and not;

Which are of value, which belong in hell's pits;

Which ought be re-called, which ought be forgot.

Let, then, to greater justice this page appear,

For it's of more stupid injustice it pours.

Then this be not rewritten some future year,

For having arrived to what my true heart adores,

This punctuated absolutely and blessed.

Be this, reality's substitute, gave rest,

Come to my grasp its perfectly shaped world ball.

Be such holy howsoever speakable,

To no malevolence done nor done to it.

Just so, let its goodness, then, be seekable,

To crucified souls a destination fit.

And the serpentine wise verses embrace?

Without live movement to what can they pertain?

Just so, for protection's sake I wear this face,

Sealing, not from my wings above, but the bane

Of destroyers who think they see but are blind

With prejudicial ignorance, dreading Mind:

That of which we breathe and of which we consist.

Be honored, then, these verses rare and pregnant.

There's been much gave up that this mother visit,

This single poem, but as is, crowned and regnant.

Be brought to its author riches exquisite.

Blooming of full roots in quiet soils, bound mute,

Good cheer shall be born, and love dear without fear.

Joy shall come to who the damned now persecute,

Against the powers that are already here.

Welcome, then, what the unliving inhibit.

Make an exhibit of truths they prohibit

Such that the Mind they damn they cannot resist.

25

Of a Correlated Chemistry Separated

Not quite anew, yet now since your arrival,

Though yet of a child, now old, of flash and blood,

And yet of a twin, though ally, yet rival,

I again etch I know not what kind of bud.

Its four dimensions bloom with exultation.

Its others to a worthy elevation

From which to express my appreciation

That you participate in my low station.

Such both bows my head and lifts me up within.

You are greatness itself, my but small heart win.

I want to be as you, mind, soul, every cell.

Yet your servant humble before your power,

For in lightning you dress while blue jeans I wear.

They are your clouds, your own, which I see shower

The mountains ahead, as some ink I here spare.

I do not write in vain, for this you perceive,

To fulfill my word as your own, I thus glad.

For they're worlds full of you I wish to conceive,

I your own, as your clouds from which you are had.

My life's been a fight, a struggle all the way.

But now I do easy what hell did once pay,

The miracle you, that's ring wedded to bell.

I'd been having doubts with verses as to trust.

What appeared to be good was not, led to waste.

I've long wrestled the same with religious crust,

Deeper in the pie something with a bad taste.

But more my thoughts as to such I'll not render.

I very dislike agonizing some point,

And accusation blames the same its sender.

Where is said “Christ is here” do not there appoint

Yourself – in so many words said Christ the same.

For there the traditions of man snuff life's flame.

For sake of being seen the same as the show.

As for us, do we not go unrecognized?

Who brought me this truck, what do you want with me?

What is it by me you wish be realized?

Why when I write “I” you correct me with “we”?

Perhaps I make oceans out of but puddles.

Perhaps out of a sea I make but a pool.

Perhaps I don't translate well your rebuttals.

But I curse as I write, and days are getting cool:

Ice isn't my bed and it's not me made it.

Elsewise, then. Have I not written and prayed it?

I need reap what, not what is not what, I sow.

Back    Presence    Next