To The Gods We Shall

in one man’s faith is another’s lack thereof
say what you will about outwardly goodness
true words leave not from the fanatic’s lips
it is a sham that there exists a god for all
the deaf and the blind, and the mute most of all
such impotent respectability among others however abled
matters not when their fingers and thumbs in safety
of their mouths have no protest left in them
like ripened breasts flop limply after a child has weaned
and the world’s ornament – myth has stood in increase
for however piteous a cry from the bounds of one’s breath
none hold station a moment longer
when the evening of our lives begins to descend
and in its guise a wound that’s born to bleed
much inherent to divine dexterity is the oncoming
rush an unknown evermore and all that’s admitted
is that time reduces bony hands to an ancestral garment
a kind of gladness within which lies a mirthless laughter
and with the same damnation the gods demand lives
be ended like a rudderless boat adrift the holy ganges

To The Gods We Shall

…and he wept for whom

if the man of torn reputation
is a ghost you don’t see
until the maiden’s blackened name
spells out golden letters

if the man in a crown of thorns
provokes no thought
until the woman he bedded
critics his stretch marks

if the man who couldn’t cry
then cries for years and years
after his wife left him
in his rusted car

if the man who sought solitude
is now alone and brooding
he wonders where everyone is
in vain awakened Buddha

if the man who read the holy book
leaves no flower in it
does he create the sky above
the view of his grave

…and he wept for whom