The Problems I Have

 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?