Unaccountable for Accountability ~ Tuesday, April 8, 2025

As you know, when I was just three years old
something happened, and I died as a child

years, nay, decades later, to you, I write
only I am already dead, a fold
under a flap in envelopes allows

knowledge to remain sealed, the truth seems wild
nothing but majestic unicorns bite
on the surface of the skin to taste salt
waste not my time with my head on pillows

waiting for coming attractions, the dead
hold out for the parousia of Christ
even as I write, I must sleep, my head
needs rest for all eternity, my wrist

I move with pen in hand with no rest, halt

wait for the train to success, the Gold Line
as a poet ignored, recognition
simply always beyond my grasp, I see

judgment blinds me, this poverty is mine
until I let go and let God, they say
still, if I could believe, this volition
this will to overcome knowledge is key

transform the invisible and unseen
hidden without proper vision, make hay
rough hewn dried grass, while the sun shines, account
each day for improper conduct, attend
early morning mass, the baptismal font

yellow with baby piss, must I pretend
everyone else do not notice blue-green

algae floating around my head, I died
realizing my shame, who was to blame
seriously ill, dysfunctional games

old as elephant memories, I cried
literally, every day, tortured, fame
diminished for good reason, lack of frames