Shamed by Schopenhauer.
Drugged by German poets.
Lord of nothing,
suckled from a she-wolf's teat,
locked down in a hovel of words.
Bad light. No invention. Inoperable.
Eyes conquered by the rearview mirror.
I might have liked you
if I could have heard you,
but your voice was on the other
side of some great divide.
The giant goes with me when I go.
Under my diaphragm you will find
a nest of young rats.
Be careful with your knife.
They are hopeless things, but harmless.
The world is full of judgment days.
This, though, is the hour of the carp
and of the dying flies.
No compensatory spark flares across
the neutral dark.
Call the crows. They will surely be
interested in this. And let some intrepid
astronaut among them carry these
ashes back to the stars.
In the ruins of the garden,
night with its black snout
follows the trail of blood
in the fresh snow.
Once, out of wild dreams a boy awoke
to discover that his tongue had turned to stone.
From the distant village dull bells
were pealing and darkness was advancing
swiftly on the chaos of his heart.
Let us pray,
and at least pretend
as if our lives
depended on it.
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