A Hard Rain

I don’t have time for this
brand of living, for this
dedication of making things
harder than need be on myself.
Nietzsche is an octave higher
than my heart, yet nonetheless
his feet are my prayers shuffling
through psych ward halls impatiently
mumbling, “Who dares to say it?”
Prophets can be unbearable,
and because I’m in pain, I say
(apart from Friedrich)
let’s kill Nietzsche and his will
to nothingness in this hard rain,
— perhaps I do think of truth as holy;
so let this be my granite sentence.

::

for Real Toads