Masters of the Universe,
three and some,
nearly four
months tween
me and you
that words
interchanged,
prayers,
asking for the answering job
which was handily God-to-Man
transferred, transfused
tween you and
me
a/k/a
Job...appropriately

you may recall
I was the bloke
who immodestly spoke,
asking any and all
circulating deities,
to tender
their resignations
post-haste,
immediately
for failure to do
the appointed rounds
well enough to this
human's satisfaction

now don't go high hopes expecting
a large confession
about how hard,
ya see it really is
tending the flock be...

nope
I ain't here to beg of you,
take this onerous
from my shoulders!

no, no, capitulation,
my track record
maybe not much better
than what went before,
but you know what I'm about to say,
cause you are perfect

well I still don't like
what satisfies your perfection definition
for my fellow humans,
so I'm keeping this job/Job,
for another few months,
cause I am.
Human
enough to know
that humans keep on trying
and you just gave up
and said let them do what they want
between human to human,
as long as they pay us obeisance

I put sins of
man to fellow man
as my número uno priority
and if the number of prayers diverted
back to you,
in your inbox receiving,
are just the
dues paying kind,
keep'em,
I got more important things to do...

count thy words
like you count your breathes -
not!

the estimable statisticians
can estimate
the proximate number
of breaths
our lives will take,
the inventory of words,
we shall on average aggregate

we breathe recklessly,
never stopping
to slow down the rate
with which we tirelessly
consume ourselves

think of the
mess of words,
a brain store,
like a breath,
use it and then
purposeful lose it,
once employed,
nevermore,
so write often,
even longingly,
as in,
write long,
write hard,
every word expelled,
a treasure,
returned to
brother poets
for their
consumption and reutilization,
the monoxide,
of a shared oxide

when thy stock of
words in trade,
almost all used up,
perforce,
must write only
short little sweet nothings

well,
in happy desperation,
compose
alliterative allegations,
nonsensical noises,
aiming to pleases
summation of essential humanness

remain few breaths,
issue rhythmic sounds,
colorful grunting noises,
outed

one last intelligible poem
that cannot ever be read

Masters of the Universe,
tender me thy resignation,
if but for
a day,
a millennia,
no matter how measured,
any being,
you, purported supreme
or otherwise,
are tired in ways
hard to comprehend

tender me
thy responsibilities and dilemmas,
have studied your resignations,
solutions that provide no resolution...

I can do better.

Why?

not obligated by parenthood,
rules of randomness superimposed,
all I got is human kindness
the eyesight that
colors kindness,
tolerates no injustice,
milky white light,
no longer recognize

"there for the grace of God
go you and I"

have no name,
but if you need one for me,
call me
<human>

is for:

*private, personal...
never public,
even if public displayed

oft, urgent,
burners on high,
committed
from body to paper
a battlefield commission,
*** boiling over,
passenger driver in the pace car

oft, hazy,
slow cooking stew
multi-flavored, spice twice
splendid blended,
meat for some,
potatoes for others,

always purposed,
sometimes even,
purposeful

pleasure two-folded,
twice arrived,
at birth,
given
mixed with hearty
birthing pains

given again,
when later reread,
stumbled on,
at a later time

you think,
albeit, quietly,
"****, ****,
prideful just enough I am,
claim me a title,
poet in the tradition!"

but the little voice whispers
poet!
poetry pride,
a deadly bromide!

satisfaction best when
the P is just
private, personal,
and the inner ear
smiles when you read your
words to yourself,
words you wrote,
to the cadence of thy heartbeats,
leaving you
smiling inward
and your harshest critic,
your biggest fan,
clap you on the back,
with the same hand