You Don't Care I took the grave's last nickel I robbed the shirt off the back of the Grim Reaper What do I fear? Do I fear the fall after the exhileration of the climb? Do I fear the assassin on the balcony throwing knives (and insults)? Do I fear the words of pain and humiliation (true or not)? Do I fear the self who knows all the truths? Do I fear the sickness I brought on miself*? Do I fear the sickness… I gave you? I choked on the bone of blessing I spit out the communion I threw out all mi* friends and I burned their things. I kicked the puppies I used to feed (to mi* dragons). What do I desire? Do I want the waterfall from the scenic cliffs Do I favor the flavor of Love's kiss am I aroused by yours? Do I desire your body? your shoes? Your last nickel? The shirt off your back? The water almost drowned me The food is poisoned The shelter is rotted These shirts off the backs of stars are moth-eaten What sustains me? Is it the dirt that covers the Earth? Is it the ocean seen from space? Is it the breath I stole from you and kittens on fire? Is it the French pastry smashed under-foot? Is it the toast, also French? Is it the pen or the poetry that pulls mi* hand? Or is it you? Where do we go from here? And why must we kill the houseplants and the monarchs? Why must the kings of man swear?Why must I love you with a deck of cards? I bet death's nickel on the poker game. I wiped mi own ass with the Grim Reaper's shirt. I used the blessing for false purposes. And the communion? …was of the Satanists. Mi* friends and their things were fodder for the nothingness all around us. I used to feed the puppies to mi dragons. I used the water to float away. The food to distract the fat billy-goat protecting the bridge. The shelter is firewood in a forgotten stove. The stars and their shirts are tens of thousands of millions of miles away. Who is the Master of the Universe… and what does this master want? Certainly it isn't love. But is it death? Is it sex? Is it sex compounded by death? Where is the master and why must I serve one who is unseen? When I bite you it is the only truth. You sustain me You aren't even French. And you work hard to avoid the dirt A toast to you… with raised fluted goblets of wine Red wine. But you won't drink with me You are afraid of the fall So you deny yourself the exhileration of the climb. You are afraid I'll steal your breath again or the fiery kittens from hell! Or are you afraid I am reflected in the pond of mi* own poetry Or that mi ass cleans the shirt off the Grim Reaper's back… Is the pain you feel from the stabbings or from the longing to be stabbed? Are your eyes brown or are they silver pools reflecting the shit of the world? Am I that shit? Or do you refuse, still, to give me that much credit? Where does it hurt? Is it in your hands that do nothing? Is it in your head where the cobwebs and the powder from crushed spiders request coffee (in the morning) to wake and soft music (at night) to sleep and more coffee for taste and more soft music for concentration? Was that your nickel? Was that your shirt? Were those your puppies? The dragons have graduated to wolves. So the puppies need no longer fear. It was mi* hope That your demons were timid; That your piss and vinegar salad dressing would clash with the cherry tomatoes in the moonlight It was mi hope that electing you choosing you chasing you down the waterfall would show you the world and in that world mi* love  Was I wrong? Is that what I fear? Do I need to be right… ALL THE TIME? Am I not? Should I sit quietly and listen to your foul insults (true or not)? When I bite your foot, should I remember the pastries you had to step on to get here? Should I regret it? Are your toes longer for it? Does the truth lie between the fiction of your kiss and the fact of mine? Does the willow       weep     for me? And the lion Will he eat the children of the fox, Or will he be out-foxed? The nails in the coffin you kneel before were once your own fingernails And this coffin is now your alter. Why don't you bury me already— AND GET IT OVER WITH? Your whining and blubbering is beginning to interfere with mi* banquet   of souls. IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE HELL UP I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU WITH ME!    —He cries; But you don't care. This poem is featured in The Gallery  by R. Wesley Edwards

wwEd store!!

A mundane, rather savage, look at life…

Now this is interesting…
And so is this.