And me? The Goobermeister?
Waving bubbles in the nude—
Teaching math to losers—
Inventing flying saucers—
None of which is promised.

Tut, tut, poetchilde,
Perfection or bust—
Bethink thyself—

Alright already—
Receiving loved ones longéd longed for
Whose eyes might glow with joy unless, alas,
They burn with fiery score
In memory of how I failed tally,
Thus, living evermore upon my knees—

Behoof thy sorry soul!

With a second tenth of my brain
Emergent
Beyond the magnificent pittance
Of our shilly-shally luciferousness today—
By the kindness undeserved called grace—
Learning Bathsheba’s language
Then asking her for her story—
Then seeing if she likes mine—

Belabored is thy brain?

Is this what you want to hear?
Good for a year and a day—
A hundred years after others have met her—
As sure as my shake—What then?
Is this supposed to make me happy?
Is ‘heavy’ not compliant with admittance?
Should I have been a robot for you to program?

Bewail only thy present state.

Beseem yourself.

So with the thought of the river
Flowing from Mount Zion
Feeding trees growing leaves
For the healing of the nations—
A dose of hope—
Skeletonized—not processable—
But skeletonized with eyes of faith—
Maybe I can dream
That the fardel in my head
Can be dismissed
Or trained to worthy use—
Maybe I can dream
That my c-cluster stuff
And my self-diagnosis
And my enneagram 5-spot worries
Will be put in proper place—
And maybe I can dream
That I make happy b-cluster types
Who hunt me down to drag me about—
Robotifying them to our dismay—
Formless forms fortified—
Super souls stupendified—
So there—

Bepuff your magic dragon.

Thus snort I—

_______

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