In the time it takes to see . . .
our marriages of convenience
shine on the shadowed prairies
hoping to somehow be life's exception:
whether to live or to live in death.
What is the substance of substance itself . . .? The 'new' always becomes
the antiquated dust-bowl of stupidity
yet no one is left to learn.
I believe "love" exists, but blood
rare, sprout fresh, chubby arms
greeting daddy arriving from his
duty, his reflected love, his illusions. . .
A poet must not care if the words
fail or no one listens or sees
the misery behind the joy
of creation . . . A poet must
nurture silence like a new-born babe.
The moon tonight is not deceitful:
it just is. And so is the dark side.
Blend the two and one sees what
cannot be spoken and hears what
will never be painted.
And the best of us will go unnoticed:
embrace it . . . For the multitudes
do not want the truth: they want
ego-orgasims and money money enough
to purchase everything . . .
even the illusion of illusions:
which is to say "I will survive.
My meanings will be signed in blood,
the meat of "my" meaning --
for I am the one who first asked
"How will I actuate the impossible?"
And to my success, toast the universe
with your illegitmate dreams . . .
Do not shun one such as me:
"I" love you, for it is to
my convenience to be loved in return.
I ask you to buy my books,
not because I have something valuable
to offer, but because "I" found
a way to reach something in you
which in my genuius was exploitable:
So there you have, the cofession
of a common madman! Love me for telling
you this: The way out is the way in.
And the way in is to know you
will never succeed. Your words,
as these, have no thunder --
the electricity from which
we emerged, funnelled through a cloud.
The moon is still round and waiting:
I do not need a clear night
to define my madness . . .These words
are quite sufficient.
Enjoy them, and please don't forget
to send the check.
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