Firedog-Ookami

Occupation— What a terribly odd idea. That I must bleed a factory's worth of pens and a forest worth of paper— So that I may meet an arbitrary measurement of learning— A valueless number of value. I am growing old. The world ages silently with me. What have I gained from it? Grains of sand slipping through— My porous hands: incapable of recapture, of grasping the moment— My sister, my darling Catherine, waits at home for me— But I am occupied. My mother, the origin of everything we know— Held captive by 'owners'— Private Property. But I am the progeny of the natives, the inheritor of

Hello, Student! You, there! Pouring over my poems with drudgery. Half-asleep, fumbling for the keyhole. Let me give you a hint: I make locks without keys And doors without keyholes. The universe may live in a bedroom— All three pounds of it— But you will continue searching among the chewed up pens and scraps of paper In search of him. So, take heart dear future! I send you salutations from another age!

Some days, everything is poetic. Those are the days you notice the reflections in the floor And the pettering birds on the rotting windowsill. The kinds of days life intoxicates you and holds you captive, And unwilling but unresisting subject. Even the rubbish bins beg to be lyricized And the polluted smoke becomes a dancing shadow against the canvas of sky In a brief escape from reality My escapades in words trap a piece of the soul in the mundane schlep of life  And shades my heart from the harsh rays of truth.

I am a stormy paradox Here to rain on your crisp summer evening The universe does not fit in a box. A contradiction cannot be captivated. One cannot push the ocean into a fishbowl And call it a charming two bedroom flat. So I merely ask you to erase your memories And destroy your conceptions And behold without thinking—appreciate the cosmos Without mathematizing him.

What an interesting phenomena, the sneeze. A rally of "God bless you" Like a choir. Well, I say God damn you. If there was ever a thing to bless or damn I suppose a sneeze is more worthy than your soul. Tell me, what is the weight of your soul? Lighter than a sneeze And freer than an autumn breeze Your soul is carried away. Chaff in the great eternal wind. God damn you for breaking my concentration with a ceremonious sneeze. God damn you for taking the time To bless something so unworthy in nature While you ignored that person you see every day that hurts You should be off blessing them For Christ's sake How are