I
actually feel sorry for him
my
extension
my
avatar

I
wake him
every morning
no matter how sleepy he is
get him out of bed before sunrise
while I hide
deep inside.

He arises
to reply
respond
put out
and
deny.

A hook through the nose
to
catch the bucks
and
cast him out into that
old main stream
where he does his perfect avatar thing
he dances jigs
he placates
he sings
he says please and thank you
can I get you anything
the fingers
waving
at
him
no longer mean a thing.

A master of the palms up
he
can
always say
"who? Not me."

And
when his day is done
I
reel him in
remove
what ever little bucks
he
caught

Sit him down
in
front of the t.v.
gin and juice
and
dancing images too.

Give him a sleeping pill
so he sleeps so sound
no dreams
to
disturb
his life
and routine
a
brown nosed role
in
the
consumer machine.

I
slip
him
into bed
and
sometimes in the late night
I
hear
him weeping.

In
the morning
I
get him up
to
do
the same **** thing .

It's hard to
understand Dante,
but oh so easy to
fall in love with
his madness.

To be so flush
with the gift and
die penniless and
misunderstood is
a comedy that can
only be lived and
not fabricated.

His Inferno was
cold and lonely
and I feel a
kinship with
the cold and the man.

His prince was a
blubbering fool whose
only sin was
his betrayal
to his king.

And I've shed blood
for senseless reasons
and always remained
loyal to the
ways

Who shall cast
judgment upon
my loyalty,
is it the pain
in my gut that will
portray my
penance.

The Serpents gave
us our religions,
for every swarm needs
its own Queen.

Dante died alone
in banishment,
Nietzsche wrote
the Anti-Christ
and I've fallen hard
for them
both.