I have been looking up your words to see who you are
though I know all of you out there are your own special beings
to me you are each in the mansion outside
a different face on every door that is closed.
Despite the press, you all get along together well in life;
relentlessly even in fights.
Both factions show. It is on.
Someone's pulled apart
and then I think I know the way when one element after another descries it's old
adhesion and we have here the mess
that won't hold up but that once functioned successfully.
At present, the defeated resemble a puddle of mud.
The beast (me) lopes over; I extend my gristled fingers
like so: going under the dark water to the hard parts.
Well I like them. The, shall we say, shrapnel or pearls
from the (lonesome) former person's own lonesome irritations.
Oh I know you and you me little trophies
see how I have mine out all the time: the scales, really
these are scales and they go all over but my clothes cover them, and the teeth-
at crucial moments. The last time I gnashed them
something, something then I passed out.
Then a voice from behind a door said,
"I can't even hear myself think for all that damn racket."
"Naturally" I said groggily, as their head inside describes
a clear cut forest plus maybe a resentful memory of a tree falling
and, wait, shouldn't I be hearing something?
The knock, knock, knocking that is the head against it?
I go for my bag. It holds what I contend to be pearls
though they do not pawn or I am more invisible than ever
a creature below commerce, believe it or not.
Don't they want my business?
"Those aren't pearls they're a bunch of old bones." I was told
by the big man who addresses the man behind me.
"Wrong friend, this is precious. The result of money made.
It's what was first paid." But he won't have it. "Get out!"
he shouts. "No, you get out!" I maintain as he calls for Security
and I am ushered into the day, pushed away, like so-
Born into Hell again is the song I sing at these times,
In Hell we can't reach anyone. We just watch. They do not see us
but we care about them.
They fall apart and we cluck, "Oh I know that feeling, brother." or, "Don't
worry, sister, it can't last forever." We are in Hell.
Picture the row upon row of one person cells
almost no one gets a mirror. When we extend a hand-BAM!!
"Wherefore art the pain?" sayeth myself unto me.
"Faith, I cannot say good sir.
Now I only know I am here
and the constant cries, of course."
"Later they will take some of us away."
"But who?" I ask myself, "And what are they trying to do?"
And myself says, "It's you they are taking.
"How do you know?" and "What's this business of aloneness?" and
"I'm not stupid." and myself says, "Haven't you heard?
Those big embarrassing angels who fought for your carcass
have flown off. Now you are more for rue.
Here is the mirror
but don't put your hand out
as the idiot with the scythe thinks he is independent
and goes for the holders of kopeks of insanity
few and phony though yours be."