26

Clash Between a Prison and a Grain

How is it I do all the hard work, the chores,

While you do the easy on this magic Earth?

Though your mind is greater, such as never bores,

That's no excuse I get the plow, you the mirth.

I've done dirty work for morons all my life.

Why not principle the same in my favor?

Anything I can you can do with less strife,

While I count money and decide what flavor

You'll paint the walls of our home. (Black, red and white?)

We shall make good progress with much less the fight

If you perform what I command, with your aid.

That to me is “logic” (as you remind me).

That we thus agree accept my gratitude.

Yet I, your wisher, wish what you wish bind me,

For loving devotion is my attitude.

You know better than I what is good charming,

So I listen to what you breathe in my ears.

With your advise I be no more self-harming.

What good does that do you, chewing one your gears?

Well, I'm no gypsy that good if not for you.

So it's you I'm writing, good welfare ensue.

Still, how is it I the sweat, and you the shade?

27

Undertaking Applicant

Give to me of your power, command and mind.

Give to me of your goodness, logic and health.

Give to me of your heart smiling bright and kind.

Give to me of your prosperity and wealth.

If I've missed anything please inform what.

Thank you – your sense of humor, please do add that.

If there is anything else that I've forgot,

Please remind me. Oh yeah, and you're true thereat:

Please protect me, my property, those I love.

Nor stop there: make my flesh your own glove,

Your own vessel, your own tongue, your own image.

That's a lot already, but more I've to ask:

Of your secrets please give me understanding.

I'm sure, with that, life would be much less a task.

Some say life's a gift. Don't know what they're handing –

For me it's been a long life sentence to hell.

Well, it's not here my intention to complain.

Rather, to thank you that, though I be unwell,

You're my companion, thus know not all's in vain.

Meanwhile, you know how I hate the human race.

Perhaps you can make dislike less the case.

We are one alone? You've no other limbage?

As a host to each the other we've both failed.

I in of ignorance, you I don't know why.

You've sensed, at the least, every letter I've mailed –

Perhaps like an atom writing to the sky,

Much getting bounced around, no place to just be.

Then water started pouring. I staked a square.

Then to a “home” compelling, waiting for me.

Yet a foundation for building neither there,

To the winds of hell and evil beasts I fell.

To the one who just accused me this day hell,

This day his death, in pain to remember me.

I note your choice of psychoses in answer,

Preferring that to my dislike made the less.

Curses you do well, not much the romancer

With blessings. Seems you like distress, things a mess.

Name one thing you've done for me, “darling” of mine.

Or, what a “Father” in one who kills his son.

Or, what a “Christ,” come as thief, no other wine.

Indeed, as “Satan,” no fruit all said and done.

Yes, you're there, to deny just as you do I.

I say not “here,” preferring lone to a lie.

What truth I be if not separate from thee?

I needn't ask forgiveness. I've paid the price.

Another stanza, though, since you spoke what I

Wrote true, using a witless louse to suffice:

Psychotic evil beasts who more merit sty

Than the pigs they eat while shamming their glory.

Yet not Jesus I in neither love nor sex.

No temptation is their flesh, in my story

So disgusting but repugnance my reflex.

Who, amidst their billions, worthy of my bed?

Nor 'til blessing real shall I deal what you've read.

I've shown good faith. The same from you is long due.

I neglected to ask you for peace, taking

For granted you'd know that's a good thing to have.

As for this truck, hope you've something else baking –

I don't appreciate abuse as a salve.

Now I'll finish this poem and wait for your curse.

Though I like to be alone here, just with you,

To what victory come, what better than worse?

Well, I've no home but this tree, here, while rue,

And a breeze – though turn away, I wish I were you.

God of sleep, would you could make days truly new.

28

This Sheltering Arm

That I write the truth I wish it were not so.

Few can imagine the evils which exist,

Which own great power beyond what man can know.

Blessed the ignorant who live those powers missed,

For a truly new world came not of my sleep.

I should like to write a world worth living in,

But those powers which be prefer slaves to keep,

As the good intent of this cycle wears thin.

So, who truly is my friend? Shall I write you:

Shall I conjure you alive to wear this shoe?

No, I've only prescience, lone but for the birds.

Who is not empty as I, the windbag?

Place me where I belong. It's not in this truck.

A heavy tax I pay as this pen I wag.

I need a loophole from this fate where I'm stuck.

Tell me, what world can I call forth that's not hell?

I've lived in many, evil's damning the same.

What world can I call forth in which to live well?

Who shall avenge me against all who cast shame?

Where can honesty thrive in friendly manner?

Where is my ship to sail and raise its banner?

Where is it possible good arise from words?

29

A Mathematics Wants Gripping Closure

Is there a heaven any kind none can damn?

Where if who would they simply be excluded?

Dear God, save me from this world where all's a sham,

Where every blessing's with evil included,

Such that one can't tell good from accursed hell.

This is my fruit, pushing 'til their number be done?

To what delightful mystery to unshell?

What saving victory by this can be won?

Three lines to go, challenge no more I'm able:

What trying to grasp leaves an empty table.

How know, then, your good intent from a fable?

30

Turnaround

It appears that again is yet excessive.

To what shall this blather arrive? What's the point?

Shall I good fortune draw, this way expressive?

Shall to my favor I some angel appoint?

Shall some fairy tale palace become my address

By scribbling up from a void where wasn't one?

I say “No” the more. To whom to answer “Yes”?

Perhaps Christ is the Lord, whom some ill I've done.

If true, it's as likely in ways known the less.

Yet religions, if ask me, are full of nuts

Who by colored “light of God” the brain shuts.

Well, good this not stone – I write with stupid quill.

Is it so unlikely, “rising” from the “dead”?

(If judge by my “life” in this world, maybe so.)

Meanwhile, paradise on Earth is crime to grow.

I myself insist on writing this instead,

As if good can come of discipline alone,

As if scratches fill a belly that needs bread,

As if better to waste the meat, chew the bone.

Well, here we are, there's no running, though forced wrong.

It must be done, nor fear shown. But what's my song,

'Specially if peace means hold your tongue, keep still?

I've spent my life as Jesus, in his hour.

I've spent my life as Satan, full of conflict.

I've spent my life crawling on my belly, thus dour.

I've spent my life in slums, thereat derelict.

Half a century beaten down, what good come?

The more I try, the more destroyed – what choices?

Slave to blame, hateful drudge, empty hands my sum?

Can revenge be sweet, or hear I false voices?

This world long wearisome to a toiling saint,

What justice if not grace, a new hue of paint?

So long bored with humans, why not fill my till?

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