and I and I sold the wood for lumber.
In this hubris, an act that says poetry is as dead
as God and Nietzsche's infiltration,
I would ensure my seat
far away from the halls of antiquity and pop culture. God will build my house
from the scraps and bonds Bob's wood provides. He is no shirker, but I will not work for anything
until I am dead.
I am not dead when the indian curtain transforms me into a clacking huron.
My guardians avert their eyes as the mists and swirls give me my dignity,
as if my transparent nature is squalid. I am no school girl,
oblivious to envy and stringy hair.
I can fly
white feathers given to the hard, broken road.
This is why I am not dead.
