I am all
boundaries like a property map
and scaffolding of
scar tissue
and nets of
projected nerve--
an edifice, a public monument,
an institution of self.
My foundation is dug
deeper than I want to know,
fathoms in the earth,
My spire to be
is beyond the bounds of
atmosphere.
Yet here am I
a work in progress
sorting out the many ways
that I
am built.
The trouble with me,
the problems I have,
are made of flesh and bone and bad
ideas, and
exist wherever
bad ideas and flesh and bone are sold.
Because I know right now
that flesh is tragic
and needs proliferate,
and my sadness is for
as much a thirsty human carapace
as for the genius
child within.
But imagine a hundred cults without vision or
a thousand militias without
a cause,
but some dumbass speaking could make them
so,
so,
so much a thing in motion.
And I welcome my unexternalized
sorrow
for it has not
yet made of me a fascist.
My problems are small against a fucked up world
is all.
I resist hating others for my mortal condition.
And if I stress this point,
could it be enough?
