everything and everyone using and being used

producing and consuming without end in sight

just awaiting in nervous anticipation

for our next turn

upon this magical carousel ride

upon our everlasting carnival

the golden sands of precious

irrecoverable time

meanwhile slipping so subtly, so suddenly through our fingers

falling forever from our momentary lives

letting go the albatross of future opportunities

to fly forever away and never to return again to our hands

relinquishing the right to merely work and live

meaning vanquished in the quest for material security

with only an expensive insurance policy

a specious guarantee against a grand, uncertain future

promising to protect us from our own

final, inexorable fate

at the edge of existence

living upon the margins of the mainstream

like sitting immovable upon the banks

of a broad span of river

without a visible beginning or end

just a long slow bend in a big flow of water

gradually turning out of sight upstream

disappearing downstream upon my horizons

watching many boats floating by

the passengers partying

or fishing or relaxing in the sun

living without a life

futureward hopes floating by

drifting down with the currents

vanishing out of sight

out of mind

it is a class difference

without privilege or prerogative

without any corner of the vast market of authority

denied any access to all the many material resources

refused any spiritual succur

like a zombie among the living

a pariah amidst the prejudiced and proud

a homeless derelict in the shadows of skyscrapers

a vagrant at the side of a busy road

like a ghost in a crowded, busy place

alone and unfelt

anonymous

unseen

squeezed into and out of existence

by cold, manipulating hands

and nameless, unsmiling faces

what is this new blindness?

to look, but to be unable to see

what is this new deafness?

to listen, but not to hear the sounds

of mournful, wailing souls

and spirits quietly crying

what is this new ignorance?

to experience so much

but to learn so little

about living and dying

what is this kind of apathy?

born of prosperity and ambition?

to bombard the senses

but to fail to feel

the sympathy of genuine sorrow

the empathy of authentic agony

what is this new disease of modern comfort?

that conveniently uses up contemporary reality

for the ephemeral, vicarious brevity of the moment

substituting sensuous satisfaction for soulful meaning

merely to throw it all away like so much rubbish

the marvelously functional structure

of our new man-made reality

the miraculous madness

of megalopolis

the megalomania

of modern mythologies

no longer the impoverished poet

no more the productive painter

now just an anonymous no one

the visions have all but vanished

the imagination gone for good

soulful energies all but dissipated

dessicated beneath the burning sun

words hang hollowly

upon the empty atmosphere

too many days of pointless depression

too many moments of emotional exasperation

too many long hours of nervous desperation

joys and angers drowned

in too many bottles of beer

mellowed out to nothing

by too many fruitless years

penniless, jobless, without any proper place in life

now just another illegitimate nobody

an anonymous anybody

where do all these super-people come from

every year a fresh new batch

every generation a better breed

so new and so improved

so much energy

so much vitality

so much competitive spirit

to succeed

so smart

so good

superiority demonstrated

over and over again

jobs all belong to them

they belong to the jobs

proven by the very highest standards

of our System

but I can no longer keep up

with this "human" race

the days fold into more days

crossed off upon the calendar

weeks go by in a vicious, unrelenting repetition

then the months change names

and the seasons wax and wane

and then the years pile up

like so many pieces of paper

and soon one loses count of it all

the ticking of the electric clock

taking its toll upon life

losing count of all the hours, days, weeks and months

year after year slips effortlessly by

with new calendars hung upon the wall

yesterdays full of distant memories

scattered haphazardly over the forgotten past

and the relative importance of tomorrow

diminishes in its turn

now I've come full circle

to where I began a decade ago

once again I am back to where I started

so many years previously

my life seems like circles within larger circles

enclosed by even more circles of larger size

always continuously closing upon themselves

containing cycles within even more cycles

always encompassed within an every enlarging cycle

forever closing, completing, never-ending

always enlarging to encompass the immediate tomorrow

starting out again just like before

still incomplete

only a little different from before

a bit worse for wear with my life

still not complete

passive in life's changing changelessness

always subject to its imperative like before

not escaping from the inextricable paradox of life's circles

without commanding them

predicting them, altering them

always lying upon the furthest boundaries of our horizons

episodes ending only to begin over again

a never-ever-ending process

of ending and beginning

again and again

and over again

the final solution

to the persistent problem of poverty

the official eyesore of the fabled fabulous city upon the hill

formulated in the files of big Brain Bureaucracy

first imagined in the computer-electronic visions

of the academic plants of artificial intelligence

concocted in the laborious laboratories of almighty technocracy

older big brother of the establishment of the status quo

lending a helping hand to younger little sister

of the ethnic order of the fifth world

in the ghetto, in the slum, in the barrio, in the parking lot

Bingo boingo, pachinko pinhead pinball

the new lottery game of contemporary living

legalized, systematized, organized, administrated, formalized

manufacturing the brand new Brand Name of Sub-Sub-Urbanism

of the Paper Proletariate Force of the Quasi-Semi-Underemployable

Manipulating the poor People of the Poor

who are impatiently standing, ungraciously waiting

in the long, interminable, single file line in front of a single window

without any signs, announcements, directions or instructions

waiting endlessly in a line that never seems to move

stretching around the building corners way out of sight

in a line that never gets any shorter or faster

introducing the new Permanent Residents of of the ignonimous

new Industrial-Government Welfare State of Poverty

in the midst of the affluent, effluent Televised Video-land

of Pastuerized, Homogenized Milk and Honey, White Bread

Margarine, and Free, Funded Sex Education and Illiteracy Programs

new Mass Media Families of Fatherless children and Homeless adults

and stray dogs and abandoned cats all waiting

for their turn next in the long, long line

in order to purchase for a dollar a new State Lottery Ticket

to win a trip on board the Lucky Luxury Train

of the Los Angeles-Anaheim-Las Vegas Express

Club Fed Triple X-rated Fantasy Vacation for two

all the multitude who play unwittingly against the house advantage

ingeniously built into the blue-print by the city corps

of Civil Engineers and Sanitation Technicians and Health Officials

playing against overwhelming risks and an infinitude of secret, unknown, hidden variables

just behind the closed, locked, bolted and barred back door

so many hapless suffering from the epidemic syndromes

of the Gambler's Fallacy, AIDs, AFDC , AAA, EOE, Drugs and Cancer

without ever realizing the really real odds of a billion to one

against survival in the Twenty-First Century Real Estate

Country Club and Country Home for Retired Cadillac-Mongers

just waiting indecently in line for just the rare opportunity

of the next-to-impossible chance to get a decent job

just to work the system, play the game, and finally beat the odds

against pulling themselves up by their own bootless straps

and strapless boots

just in order to win the privilege of not needing

to work so hard just to earn enough money to not be able to live

to eat, pay the rent, pay the bills, insurance, buy clothes, etc.

unable in and out of newscasts and videos to follow completely

the over-extended, over-determined vicious Logic of the the Lie

ignorant of the inner Sanctum of the Grand Circle of Deceit

and Intelligence and Complete Domestic Security and the Bomb

and the Pill and the I.U.D. and the Rubber and Condom

Trick tests, Holy writ, Sacred speeches, Authorized lectures

Official forms, Formal Competitions, Equal Opportunity

Discrimination, Oral Interview and Anal Intercourse

continuously aping and uppin' the ante and Image of Success

for becoming a Progressive, Aggressive Young Yuppie on the Move

on the make, in the wake, in the quake

raising the stakes of living and dying in a used Toyota

on the super Freeway to Nipponese heaven

entranced by the magical flashing lights of the Dreamland of Success

desperately driven by the flow of traffic

to immoral extremes at the edges of euphoria

in the margins of mania-land

by the inexorable guilt of being poor and fear of failure

the Perfectionist's Upper-Middle Class Fantasy

of Fortune's False Hopes in Southern California

with the Few Winners denying the lost lot of the many Losers

blinded by the base, vulgar illusions of Mass Media Mentality

Sublimating the unbridgeable Gap between Mr. Want and Ms. Need

denying the stress, the emptiness, the sordid materialisms

of the meaninglessness of the all-consuming modern lifestyle

of Making It In The Fast Lane All The Way

to Fat Consumption Super City

the shared elusiveness of the Good Life of Over Consumption

and Good Times of High Cholesterol in the Shared Company

of Good Friends orgasmically acting out the miserable

make-believe orgiastic mythology

of the Rich and Interesting Plastic Life of the sun-bleached

Beautiful People in their private, perpetual psychological

State of Boredom and Repetition-Compulsion

while reality is slipping rapidly through one's fingertips

like so much loose, petty change

the Grand Lottery Game of Modern Living

The Imperative of Making It

the Final Solution

another Form to fill out

another Test to take

another over-priced six-pack

and Anti-Abortion

God is on our side

the System's Final Solution

to the Problem of Poverty

as one matures with the years of experience

ripening in the wisdom of the ages

extremes lose their exciting, dangerous edges

and the more solid middle ground

is sought for its substantial character

one then seeks the golden mean

cultivating the sense of balance

and proper proportion

in all that is done and said and thought

in how to present oneself

to others in the world

to find harmony between

thoughts and actions

between private and public

involvement and refrain

subtlety is cultivated

with spiritual involvement

and soulful movement

extravagance, exaggeration, loud expression

all extremes become disdained

respect becomes more important than truth

appreciation more valuable than criticism

giving more worthwhile than mere receiving

reciprocity and compromise

better than power and control

refinement more preferable to vulgar experience

education and maturity

better than the lessons of life

and simplistic superiority

growing up in spite of the hard knocks

and not because of them

one reaps what one sows

the Kharma of giving and taking

no matter how far-off

down the road

poetic returns

becoming one's final lot

just deserves the final measure

of the soul

a miser with emotions

selfish with the soul

if one is a drunkard

a narrow-minded bigot

and alienates people from one's love

always flowing around

if one chooses excuses

for things said and done

or left unsaid and undone

if apathy and antipathy

become substitutes

for natural empathy and human sympathy

then one cannot blame others

for eventual losses

at the anti-climax of such an empty life

or find fault with the entire world

for finally feeling cheated and robbed

of life's simple pleasures

but if one is generous

with heart and soul

then though many may joke

and call one a fool

at least others cannot lay blame

or find great fault

if further down the road

one is no longer a stranger to oneself

in the world

living to impress only the self

there is security about my small typewriter

nothing fancy

not a big word processor

the chair with its big soft pillow

is warm and comfortable to sit in

upon its keys I type away

the entire day

ordering my scattered thoughts and feelings

onto a single scrap of paper

expressing the stacatto rhythym of my life

I type to the ticking of the clock

seconds turn into words

words into minutes

minutes turn into pages

and pages into hours and days

and I grow gradually about my typewriter

like a lone, solitary tree

rooting to a rock

I embrace it with my entire being

in spiritual love

and practical hate

when frustrated I pound the table

when it doesn't do what I want it to do

my fingers have read through volumes

my eyes have written reams

my wisdom is deeper rooted

than the mere mechanics of the machine

deeper than the surface of the paper

it has become my medium

and I have become its vehicle

our intelligence flows through my body

like electricity

through my fingertips

onto the keys depressing

leaving a permanent impression

of black ink on white paper

upon an ephemeral, delicate tissue of paper

as fragile as the leaf upon a tree

many such leaves I grow a little tree

and many such trees I plant my forest

and in my forest

my imagination runs wild

my heart and soul dwell in the freedom

of a separate, private sanctuary

The final solution to the grand old system

puppet people with well coordinated performances

with wooden faces and plastic smiles

politeness made into an art of conceit

becoming the effrontery of emptiness and meaninglessness

a nice way to keep at arms length

the real and important issues

a convenient way of avoiding

important points

modern existence refined to a process

an exact science of behavioral prediction and control

propagating the deceit of the Golden Rule

the official delousing ceremony

deliberately creating the illusion of false hopes

instilling an obedient attitude

of silent, passive conformity and complacency

the final proof of the success of the Program

more than twenty-two catches in Passing the Almighty Buck

isolating the human, alienating humanity

atomizing the psyche, eradicating nature

beyond any single person's horizons

robotrons and humanoids efficient to the nth degree

unquestioning to the everlasting end

obfuscating the truth of a false, contrived sense of security

behind the flood of forms

a deluge of secular writ

hiding behind the reality behind the mechanical beast

the Gates are shut and locked forever to the uninitiated

the ranks are closed tight to all outsiders

one must pass through the secret rituals of the back door

to become a rubber-stamped official member

of the Inner Sanctum of the Established Elite

deprived of token tickets for entrance into the bowels

for passing through the bureaucratic barricades

the Final Affirmative Action of the Operational Positivists

to sacrifice the many for the sake of the untouchable few

in the name of justice and equality

without any appropriate means of financial support

to slowly die a living death of Walking Poverty

attempting desperately

one last show

to gather together

all about myself

those many remnants

those bits and pieces

once filled with so much

meaning in my life

so many things have changed now

and I am no longer so sure exactly how

but I know they are no longer the same

as they once seemed to be

It all seems much less to me now

than what it once was

like so much more

no longer the vigorous young man

the strong human being

my lost lot in life

cast aside

in the sands of time

in spite of many wishes and hopes

and many futile efforts

here now I am

confused

no longer knowing

who or what I am

or why

I have all but given up hope

upon my misbegotten world

and the big world

has all but given up hope on me

perhaps it is too late now

perhaps my die are finally cast

my fate determined

my meager destiny

all but played out

to no avail

no one notices

no one seems to care

any longer

freedom at last

from the fetters of life's inconveniences

from the bondage of brotherly love

ended now the ceaseless distractions

the torturous day-to-day details

of routine compliance and conventional conformity

unconscious restrictions of petty responsibilities

undermining every effort at self-expression

determining every act of self-sacrifice and charity

in this tragi-comic melodrama of life's mediocrity

here today, gone tomorrow

the past becomes grand confusion

misbegotten memories and lost motivations

time now to don new clothes

to shuck off the tattered threads of worn-out times

whatever valuable may remain

surviving remnants of yesterday's dreams

tomorrow's new wardrobe

one cannot help but become impressed

before all knowledge of humanity

by the endlessness

of many book-lined corridors

one cannot help but express

utter humility

in the sublime presence

of so many forgotten texts

neither prostrating oneself in divine worship

nor demonstrating arrogant, haughty pride

but merely mindful play and innocent jest

curiously strolling down the many aisles

as the spirit so desires

stopping now and then

choosing interesting titles

but not taking too long

with this or that interesting bit

not remaining in any single spot

moving on to the next point of interest

perusing many volumes alone the way

why have we been so blessed

in this time of our history

by some mysterious power

yet misunderstood by our naive science

how shall we spend the little time

we have left in our lives

squandering it, miserly, wasting it, mindlessly

in endless obsessive perseveration

and inner toil of frustration

pursuing hopelessly false values

or shall we try to make the most

of the mind we have been blessed with?

warming our hands

by the glow of the fire

not daring to draw too near

fueling the forge

of mythological being

master blacksmith

reworking his magic metal

pounding its molten meddle

into suitable, malleable shapes

quenching the heat

in the sizzling broth

tapping, rapping it

for the volcanic touch

testing its temper

for mystical strength

striking it against

the magical stone

sparks flying in a cascade

from the spinning wheel

touching its sharpened edge

with the draw of a thumb

pumping the bellows

of spiritual breath

we the apprentices

of black magic

stand about

in hypnotic fascination

awestricken

by the golden transmutation

humankind divined

in the forge of being

divinity commonplace

in the molten metal

cast more coal

into the furnace

steal the heat

from the bowels of nature

work our miracles

into human shape

make magical weapons

to strike at demons

as another day begins

time to start afresh

another new life

dreams of yesteryear

all vanished

with the rising

of a new sun

hoping tomorrow

will be different

somehow

better than yesterday

expecting

only more disappointment

suffering unexpected distraction

every morning

a new lease on life

flying out my open window

forever

every evening

just another day gone by

in the preoccupation

with everyday things

feeling a failure

of a decade of self-deceit

every little error

becoming enlarged

every mistake magnified

beneath the lens

of existential introspection

no longer really knowing

what it's all about

now not knowing anymore

how to begin again

like before

problematic issues

perplex my mind

producing cacophany

hodge-podge delight

mosaic of confusion

tattered dreams

bright ideas

boiled by the sun

now sunken

into unconsciousness

only vague

mental meanderings

muddle mosaic

of miscellaneous things

creative spirit

dissipated

conformity of intellect

thoughts of many others

invading the psyche

flooding the conscious

no longer really defining

a clear division

thinking continually back

upon the many years

events so composing

this muddled life

never having know

tomorrows prospects

worldly plans

dashed

who can keep up?

who can compete?

no matter how good one might be

there is always someone better

waiting to prove themselves

on down the dirty road

especially when the odds

are set against you

and the rules really don't seem fair

even though they are telling you differently

what kind of a game to keep on playing

only to know you'll lose in the end

no matter how hard you may be trying

a game without a real end

a life without real success

a joke without a real conclusion

better to play a solitary game

with one's own rules

better to compete against oneself

to try to become better than one was

not to worry too much

about success or failure

amongst all the others

better to be left alone

to create one's own success and failure

no matter how petty

no matter how personal

no matter how private

no matter how naive or trite

this is the only true road

to authentic self-satisfaction

the only real odds for consolation

from the misfortunes and unfairness of life

the only real odds for defining meaning

of one's own success or failure

this is the only real chance to win the game

in one's own terms, on one's own ground

rather than pay too much heed

to the projective criticisms

of selfish, envious others

what is the measure of human greatness

that so stands apart from the common lot of mediocrity

that serves as a guiding light for others

is all of it mere a fiction, a myth of history?

What are the essential qualities, the elements

the necessary workings, the circumstantial factors

of that characteristic we call genius?

how to rise above the field of sundry undergrowth

to flourish freely in the fresh air and sunshine?

How to measure the superlative by only standard means?

How to comprehend the exceptional by only rule-bound ways?

Is it not enough to be merely different for difference sake?

Is it not enough to simply be exploratory, creative and new?

How to create the subtle complexities, the sublime qualities?

How to perfect the relevant, the appropriate

To achieve the power and profundity?

Upon what factors of life, what decisions of existence

Does becoming great entail?

How to overcome the tremendous inertia

The clinging dependency, the gravitational attraction

of the law of averages

of the demands of consensus and the baser pleasures

how to escape the historical momentum of the great mass

of common humanity and to achieve the momentousness

of individual meaning?

Humankind

born, living, procreating and dying

in anonymity

so many making chicken scratches upon the earth

only a few leaving an indelible mark

upon the human record

have moved so many times

I now do not know any longer

where my home really is

only a sense of spirit

drifting ghost-like from place to place

blowing haphazardly

with the direction of the prevailing wind

wandering with the vagaries of unpredictable fate

have changed my clothes so many times

have stepped into so many different shoes

I no longer really know who I am

or what I'm all about

the center of balance of my mind

has suddenly disappeared

no longer do I honestly feel a center of being

it has become all entirely situational

meaning is now no more than relative to circumstances

an orientation, a continual reorientation

in constantly changing places, constantly altering times

no longer with a center point of gravity

a common ground for meaning, for communion with others

no longer a fixed frame of universal reference

no longer with the security of a place to call home

which isn't only ephemeral, temporary, vicarious

can no longer honestly admit what tomorrow may bring

now my life is filled with only disjointed memories

a disparate series of fragmented moments and momentos

no longer with any sense of unity about my being

or a common theme of meaningful purpose to my future

displaced feelings from another period and place

no longer relevant to here and now

not appropriate for making a new future

only a personal history quickly receding upon my horizon

a prodigal son who's gone too far

a human without a home

a man without a country

a sheep that's strayed too far

from the common fold

a pray to wolves and demons

all these many people

toing and froing

coming and going

hurrying about

busy being busy with business

striving for power

moving toward greater perfection

making more progress

making it all happen

in the name of progress

staying busy

keeping busy

so busy with progressing

every year better than before

more than before

a new improved version

of the world

a better brand of progress

so busy with progressing

so preoccupied with power

so obsessed with perfection

making it all come about

in the name of God, Gold and Glory

in the name of the nation of perfection

in the name of the land of progress and prosperity

in the name of the new state of power

prosperous people, people prosperousness

not knowing what its really like

to be Godless in the land of God

to be imperfect in the race of perfection

to be powerless in the state of power

to be regressing in an age of progress

prosperity--plenty of perfection, plenty

progressing, plenty of power, plenty of poverty

isn't it so wonderful, so marvelous, so miraculous

this new land of plenty, prosperity

poverty

and people

mental-vicariousness

meta-vicarious

to talk of the greenery

making reference to the shores

upon the other side of the sea

mentioning some meaning

about happiness

delighting in the happiness

of the meaning just mentioned

passing away the moments

whiling away life

just sitting on top of a wall

to have to choose between

reality and fantasy

is there some

poetic necessity?

or merely a definitional turn of phrase

a tricky twist of the tongue in the cheek

muttering some nonsense about justice

is the deed of the word any less decisive

than the word of the deed?

is the power of the pen and paper

any less vicious than the life of the sword?

is living in the act any less by proxy

than dwelling in the dominion of the thought?

exaggerated existentiality and emphasized meaninglessness

of a modern lifestyle carried to logical extremes

tainting everything experienced

with a feeling of alienation

the negative of the positive

tarnishing values with distance and difference

the detachment of attachment

who's to equivocate

and expound upon ultimate truth?

who's to question the existential imperative

of the final authority of living and dying?

when the little poet writes for all Poetry

when the small critic speaks for the whole world

when the miniature mind moralizes for all humanity

mental midgets casting giant shadows

moral morons enacting great things

small mouths spitting out large words

tiny talents mimickng great genius

petty egos emulating big souls

then the meaning of living and dying

comes full circle in the dialectic

of trivia and beauty

man and woman

rising together and falling apart

love and hate

joining hand-in-hand

dancing to the dialectic of life and death

on the way to heaven and hell

indifference awaits impatiently like a wall flower

for the anti-climax of the final closing act

speak to me about final peace

and the progress of civilization

and the prosperity of the people

when there will be no more wars

when there will be no more poverty

no more inequity

tell me about paradise

when you wipe away my final tears

nothing seems fair or just

no one seems to really care

everyone is caught up in their own situation

no one wants to be reminded of too much

of their own plight or misforunate

enough it is to know such problems are there

much less to worry about it all being fair

people like to pull up a few flowers for the weeds

when you call me on the telephone

complaining about all the unfairness and antipathy

how can we change these things in life

beyond our own existential dilemmas

and when people do care it is merely token

or guided by selfish motivations

how to change the world for the better

when so much of the world is so resistant to change

when so many so adamantly refuse to change their lives

who are afraid of unintended consequences

such different changes might bring

no matter how many times or how hard we may try

always there is someone in the way

the grass is always greener on the other side

the weeds have always overgrown this side

poor poet

trying to make some sense

a few disjunct lines

of utter nonsense

collecting together

many scattered thoughts

if only he could make some cents

for his sparse and meager words

to pay for his full fare

a small stipend

to make life seem a little more fair

searching for things to write about

searching for words to express those things

searching for lost meanings

hidden somewhere in those words

searching for some kind of success

behind the story

of an unfinished life

easy enough to call oneself something

a painter, a poet

then a woodworker, a writer

even an "anthropologist" somewhere between times

how he manages to do so much

with such little effort expended

trying to invent another new line

trying to think up a different turn of phrase

trying to reinvigorate his creativity

heedlessly ignoring the conventions of the trade

trying to recapture some lost spirit

of a youth that's suddenly vanished

that's silently stalked away

another average poem of medium length

nothing too unusual, nothing spectacularly outstanding

just another fragile, thin page in a poor poet's life story

just another small addition to a growing pile of paper

building a life from used scratch

building a house from used paper

making a mountain of used scraps

many little piles of used pieces of wasted paper

just something to do, while waiting to find a job

just something to waste one's time with

while waiting to look for a real living

an excuse for not earning any real money

making mythical paper money

to buy a third-class ticket

aboard a common train

carrying all the average people

to somewhere inbetween

middle-class

heaven

wishing only to return back home again

without really having a home to go back to

standing resolutely at the edge of history

suffering the infinite vertigo of groundlessness

a quivering fear of falling over the edge

into the dark abyss just beyond

both feet planted firmly upon solid ground

the winds behind me are blowing heavily

bearing strongly upon my backside

nudging me, forcing me closer to the edge

there is no turning back the clock

time has pushed this encounter with eternity

past the point of no return

poetic justice must be served

great depths must follow upon the heals of great heights

beyond the chasm there can be no clear vision

no illumination of what lies upon the other side

only a single, deep, dark sense of discontinuity

a momentous break in time and space

a momentary hiatus of timelessness

at a long journey's end

where the bottom rests no one can know

forward, downward the paths lead to my future

over this edge of final departure from the past

onward our common destiny shall lead us

whatever our trials and tribulations

into the great disparity of the darkness

where no light illuminates the unknown

the years have made their mark

upon this restless soul

spirit is crippled

brains are addled

hands scarred

creativity dissipated with bodily strength

fat and bone and skin only remaining

sexual vigor is a thing of a slipping memory

poetry is at a loss for words

only wisdom gained is a substitute

of a lost, unlived life

the lessons of many mistakes unlearned

the experiences of many losses forgotten

love and devotion become a prison

a web of entanglement of despair and disillusionment

hate becomes a sordid joke of honesty

taunting false idealisms so youthful

tainting humble realities so tarnished with time

never had a real name to call myself

a true social identity I could sincerely, genuinely believe in

or get lost in whole-heartedly and unreservedly

commitment is no longer just a four letter word

a perverse fetish of the power of love and hate

but it becomes merely the irreversible process

of day-to-day living in a common world of humanity

my intellect clouded over by a haze, a glaze of booze

in a permanent daze of semi-conscious awakening all my days

perennial unemployment has left its vicious mark

like a crude tattoo across my face

like some victim's mask I can't erase

following me like some guilty shadow

moral misdeeds of my youthful mistakes

haunt my memories and torment my dreams with violence

stalking my future success

like some dangerous, wounded animal

friends and enemies wonder amongst themselves

What kind of damaged creature is this?

Like some common conspiracy against a monstrous aberration

the misguided spirit of an all too common Humanity

what becomes of a common humanity

when it becomes merely anonymous

without some sense of personal, collective moral identity

without a common hope for a better future

better than a tragic past

without even a penny or a chance in the present?

Blanket Copyright, Hugh M. Lewis, © 2005. Use of this text governed by fair use policy--permission to make copies of this text is granted for purposes of research and non-profit instruction only.

Last Updated: 03/16/05