The Hub

The world doesn't turn
on the principles
I espouse, my
hub is made of
different metal
and it makes my progress
painful, slow, as I
press against a
different force of
tense and language - the
friction almost
killed me as I
keeled and sank
rigid with horror and
weak with trying -
my own seas of
crying have
drowned me down
to a different level
and altered
consciousness.    I have
learned the world's
ugliness and it
sits in my stomach -
foul toad -
belching my blood
as I try and
swallow the
precepts by which
I must live which
are not wise and
are not mine.
I have opened
my own eyes
and wish
I were blind.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem