Poem Shards

Token Resource Reason Rethorical Polemic
of false opposites
Sharmer had
 outdone himself this time
    laughing maniacally at the accident
       the tied up twenty highways,
      how many did they say got killed?

       "blame the man
         who drove to slow
        blame him there
         in his no-show
          slow-vo
        way to go
           you moe
     you ugly joe."

    State Police write a book of
       citations need more books
 and more examiners and
      investigators
   to get at those unholy
    human-gators that
  have turned reptilian on the rest of us,
       unblessed at best,
   the unrepentant
       and vicious childes
           of too many giles.

  

    that man?
         the man with the plan?
    a painted man with a bad sun tan?
     a parady construction worker from an
        old cigarette man?
         a man who owns a big red barn?


  "I want what you got." 
  he little-boy-blathers.

   The unequal thoughts
      need to be slaves
          to the higher urge.
  The suplicant who bows 
             as a wretch before . . .
                 
    before who?
    before a storm?
    humility as a facade or genuine real
                  repentant sense of worthlessness?
       
    that kind of feeling of
       wretchedness
  can never be rehearsed.
   It overtakes you at the
              scene of the crime
   years later, you
        remember
           him standing there
         weeping
     crying
  worried that he is dieing
      and no body will
        ever
        ever
            ever

  Ever? what? ever?
     the stone walls that lead
   off towards those mudswamp places
      where people are loath to tromp.
     Inside the sorrow of loss of soul
     who weeps for the lost when they 
         are lost even to memory?

      All that soul growth
      if it is poison ivy growth
  sour scoffing soul soiled by
      human vice, the litany of
            sin that many 
   scoff at and  refuse to learn . . .

  The stone wall leads off into those
      mudswamp places of soul
   swollowed whole the giant pieces of
       lost sculpture, that
 marvilious delusion of youth
     that was strong and compelled that
        fool, myself
     to dance
  swollowed up
      by the mudswamp of
   self-loathing.

     He was so powerful in his need to be
 through it that he
   built a super highway all the way
        around it so
    he would never even need to think
       of it again.
    because as much as you try
     to dump in it, it
           can't ever be filled.
   It is a canyon of loss,
     an infinity of human regret,
        the loss of every child ever
    the sorrowfull death of
        any hunter,
     the ruination of all kingdoms
           built on the heads
          of lowly naives.

  Those naives
      are free, educated,
  eaking out their joy in sorrow.

   I've spied them
     but they don't follow along.
  They might come over
      if they see that you are there
  but they won't ever follow you.

 If you don't understand
       a poem
 don't fault the poet.
How genious to write poems that
are totally incomprehensible?
 self indulgent?