By two I’d mastered me and mine and I
But all three needed grub
To thrive and grow.
Ma said so next you’ll need
An object called miss right
Who’ll fill your objectifying self
With words of love and praise,
A necessary swap for mother’s milk
To nourish the insatiable reflexive,
For it must live anxiety-free
In complete control
Or it will shrivel and then just die.
At last in flight
Nearing earth’s blue troposphere
I saw a cloud above
And mistook it for true substance.
What terrible disappointment
When I entered your white veil --
Just dust and vapor,
All icy nothingness
And there I lost my stimulating color
As my warm air passed above your chill,
Denigrating into a deadly dull and quiet calm,
Indulging my merest privations
To condense, and then evaporate,
All omnipotence long gone.
Oh, I heard your frosty whisper squall:
You’ve lost the plot!
You forgot your lines, imposter!
You can’t sustain the fiction
And don’t deserve your rank.
I escalate the mimic and the mime,
Because though they be false
They promise one might be true
To make more of me,
But I’m not here for you.
I don’t respect you
So pass through, go on.
If I had skin,
You’d make it crawl!
I’ve turned from writing fiction
To preparing useful stuff:
Sprinkle with well ground glass
Then finish under boiler
Until puffed and golden brown.
Now cut asbestos cloth
Into nice thin strips and
Place inside gas dryer.
Before leaving, drop copper coin
Directly into fuse box.
I asked you,
One more for the road?
And then re-boarded
To fly higher with warm wind.