Coming Home (Destination X)
You’ll never see me edit or adjust to end up with a
miracle weapon to curl dynasties of verse in a clay fog
mind where the untamed baddies go. You don’t belong and
I wish you were not even oddly neve ton ere wash I
am guilt if guilt were this dripping morass I
am sad if this tastes like the pool in my jaw I
detest you if you knew of someone like this
of someone with too much to see and too little to hold (store)
the diag, no sees the term of existence as sickened
but the almighty will not be quenched by mere visions of order
Your name dries a piss stool, like the pardon in my hand
As I write my cat farts mightily, the liberation of more than just gas.
I would kill you if I had the time, but there’s nothing to do
as I live through words like “this” and “smutty” the thinker’s sport is his thoughts
well, his batting practice is his thoughts. His sport is riddle.
You know nothing of poetry and you kill what you don’t understand.
Mercifully the day is here and I have enough to suppress
the outside I fear like the hermit my dear, I
play like the notes but without interesting font, I
curse at a mountain, declaring a fight, I
starve boringly slowly and longingly still, I
never had what I strive for and I never will.
But the best part of editing and writing the riddle
Is when I know that you are here with me, my readers and friends
I have been lost in the largess of the world only to come back to
the simple family I once tried so desperately