In a posture of a Thinker i do Sit; my head perched on a fist which is Attached to an arm which concludes In an elbow which rests on my knee; the Tile is aquamarine; the door is ajar for There is some problem with some hinges; Not enough-ajar to see but sufficient Enough to notice some discontent on The visage; the pipe is running through My place; beginning and ending though Beyond my sight; so the rest of it does not Exist; and so my head is proped up and in My bowels the strife not for life but for Death cannot come to the conclusion; No truce is possible i presume; as if Someone wrings my intestines both large And small; the wamble or a growl crumbles My entrails and shakes them trying to Displace then; all exertions are to no Good ******* right was Tolstoy as Always that there is only two truly Important plights: good health and clear Conscious; ******* the old man was Right all along; though when I imagine him In his loo of the 19th century doubling up On his throne holding perhaps to the walls In the moment of the endeavor to push to Push to push O God to push forward O Man that connotés to you something But doesn’t change the fact that you are Still in that tiled room with no means of Escape but to fight and push your way Through Oh there it goes like in the Hospital they say to you Don’t go to The white light but go now you must it Is your time my man come on we’ve been Through so much so come on go and be And throes are in the way but that is okay For This is the Way **** let it be and ohhhh Bloop; Friction; Flush; off we go and may Our paths shall never cross