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.




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