Monday, January 16, 2012

Song Four

The (revered) poet / gone.

- then plural.

So many honored ones / gone.

and then, there are the others -

who carry no fame, just flame / flown, as well.

Ambivalence. Don’t we all carry it on our backs?

The middle class has disappeared.

Not a single sidewalk out. For the rest.

And a bum like me? I have not a penny.

Not one. Not a cent to my name.

The doctors ask me to rest, now.

I’ve been told to find tomorrow. "Find tomorrow."

The others (the ignorant others) want me moving.

And there is the reality:

My actual survival. I bow my head

now. I will pray.

And I expect so very little. shitty tiny world.

This awful Earth: misery ‘does’ love company.

I’m not playing your game. Enjoy your pain.


I am going to count clouds and pet my cat.

Speak to my dog: who is deaf as wood.

I may decide that it is all too trivial. I think it is.

‘Earth spin’ will continue: until it finally ends. And it does.

meshuggener - from the Yiddish