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
I trudge. Through pain.
Although it’s yours, Clete, it sticks to me like sap; surrounds me like fog. Confined to gray, muffled days, we’re jammed in a jar with the lid screwed on. We shouldn’t waste air, you’re right. Suck it up…suck it up. But! I need to say it.
We. are. oxygen. deprived!
I’m sorry I said it, and maybe we will die a little death or a great big one because I’ve said it, but look. Can you see the living ones, outside the glass, breathing big air? Saying impossible things like the water is beautiful today. My tongue is heavy, so I spit. Patooey for what? My bones swell in sympathy for yours. Pieces of days wane into broken nights before we hit San Francisco where gray water turns blue when the lid comes off!
Mmm. We drink close-mouthed in a room by the bay, tongue-tied for speech. Ice chips salvage your throat. A perfectly flimsy cup of cool water finds me. We begin to recover.
This is to glory
Filling faithless hearts with a
Cup of cool water