I did not engineer

Nor attempt to construct

The human soul

No

Not I



The mere idea seemed frivolous

Damnably gelatinous and

Above all else

Impossible to comprehend

How silly it might turn out

Indeed I thought this



I did attempt however

To make a spicy jam

One evening at the

End of Winter I believe

Lovely time

When this,

What I consider the beginning of a debacle,

Began



I threw together

Bits, and things, and twigs,

And professional spices,

And Illicit words, and

Brown sugar,

And old tea,

And harmless fun

And Puppy Dog Tails,

And I’m allergic to snails,

And something that I called Steve



It could have been Tom

But it looked like a Steve to me

Despite its arguments that it was

A Barbra through and through



I stirred and fiddled and sang

To this black and thin glop

I indeed attempted to call

A spiced jam concoction

That was tap-dancing in circles

On my stovetop without permission



When, no I know, the usual happened

I became bored

Yes

Yes Indeed I did

Bored

Thoroughly

Bored

Bored

Bored



Where was I?

Oh yes.

Bored



Bored of this

Damnable,

Jammable,

Fred Astaire

Not spicy jam



So I left what would become

The self-engineering diluent,

Now a vicious, viscous, and crude thing

That would become the human soul

On the back burner  

While I cooked some pasta instead



I prefer pasta

It is delicious

Not like that mistake of mine

It continued to be a mistake of mine

It was not pasta,

It was not spiced jam,

And I never remembered to throw it in the Hazmat bin

Whoops



For a year

I believe

It could have been a week

A very long and tiring week

Or seven years

When I heard the back burning

Singing back to me

About apples with a crisp bite

About fireworks that misfired

About drug needles used to sew together sanity

Was this too spicy?



With its two voices of

Hospital dust

And

Captive applause



Oh my,

This couldn't possibly

Taste good

I believe whatever this has

Festered into without

Adult supervision,

I believe it might be beginning to turn

Like milk and wine



I bottled it in a wooden bottle

And left it on the stoop of an orphanage

To find a good home

I wonder if this not spiced jam

Has found a good home

Last I heard

They all went from it to They

And attended Engineering School.