Song By Myself

I celebrate the fields:
they run beside me;
they run inside me.

I am the only poet.

Poetry is all of me
that is only me.

Yes Democracy!
Yes Anatomy!
Yes Autonomy!

Divine?

Life –

O were thy splendor

Not so

Spiteful…

I can tell everyman nothing,
But will give each of you
My frame,

Fame:
burnt out salesman stuck in cold subways
elderly, forgotten, rocking slowly to death
she trembles in closet, footsteps of soldiers

yet steadies her horse: vigorous, proud
for crackling life within test tube viles
the working man rests, embers blazing

to unearth

lifedeathmehersatandarwinscopesropessticksstonesbeatlesbattles

lost won

body arose

I love me; I hate me; I am not me...
But were it not for all I see,
Were it not for someone else in me,
The Universe would not reside
In greenest mountain
Or the crystal sea.

Do you not dare to see?
Do you not,
Can you afford to not,
See thyself
On the walls of an eternal hall?

O Brother!
O Sister!
O Mirror!
O Sword!

o christ

blackest ashes defiling
white satin,
he who knew no sin
God made...

myself

myself thy glory
myself thy shame

I celebrate these ashes:

Blessed blaze!
Celestial cremation!

Aquatic graveyard,
In the Baptismal slain,
To remission this cancer

of
sins –
No longer song by myself but with Thee.