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never enough
just the way the milky-way
pours substance from dreams
destitute hands with calloused palms
fight communication with crooked fingers that ache
rush awhile they are racked with pain and unbelief
and respond to the swirl of never enough
hands close round one instant in time
this work has no reason or rhyme
and dark angels seem to flutter like ornaments of the night
no reams sprint from this poets pen
another pile of papers
gnash your teeth for each mia Culpa
these looming gray twisted visions as if ripe fruit
here to see they are developed from the decline
toil will not vanish but for labored breathe
and will not take another ass picker’s opulence
this poet is on his ass and pleads with the firmament
for a termination to their lusty commands
