First he found out his father was dead and he put the
blame on God
then he found out his mother was and he
put the blame on his father
for not telling him the things
his mother wanted him to hear.
That’s why he never married.
He didn’t know what to do, say or will
from it, the relationships that had made him
unhapppy dwelled upon his mind and
they asked him to remember and to
not understand that they were mistakes
that should not be remembered but learned
from and forgotten.
He could not move on and that made
it all indescribably happy for them
that couldn’t ask the same questions
why he should be soonest
and not latest to the frock-coated
waster called God was not his calling
and he knew it too.
He loves it with you Charlieze, only
God makes it wrong.
It could not be them to ask
“why should it be me?”
It could only be he and that
makes it wrong to be then and now.
Just why should he ask for it to
be so when all ask the same thing
and He did not know what to answer?
It could not say when and that is why
they all want to be here and there, not
why and so it is
they could not be
the ones who didn’t know
where the answer led.
It could not flow so
he could not go
to it. They did not see
and it led to the odyssey
of being, that would not lend
a hand to know it for it was
not there when they wanted
so it stopped being.
and that led to the start
of the poem about the
red lines on the forehead
of one who shalt not go to
the red l’il house called
the prairie one.
The farm was not good for the writer
but it was ill-gained for the rambler
who could ask for the right of way
not the full-natured piss-take of
the authored summer whine.
I wilt not say it to you
but you will ask it
so I will.
When are you to be here
when all is about, to tiny-mind
your own dealer for smack?
and that is your deal not mine.