Six Days to Sunday.


You don’t …

KNOW me,

but if you did, you’d hate me.


You don’t …

WANT me,

but if you did,

you’d WANT to change me


… or wish you could,

come late­ly.





Who picked so poor a case­ment

for this sad and frag­ile form?

What mad Inven­tor paused to rest

before His work was done?


How Can so pure a force exist;

unsure of recla­ma­tion.

When will the Mak­er rec­ti­fy

His trou­bled com­bi­na­tion?




The ways of the world come freely now

to take away my trea­sure.

Their earthy mass grows uncon­trolled

to rob my life of plea­sure.



There is a cer­tain numb­ness

I seek when I’m alone.

It helps me pass the time away,

Or bear it till it’s gone.


I seek to be anes­thetized

from sense­less self-absorp­tion.

To keep myself from pon­der­ing

my melan­choly for­tune.




T’is pain that dri­ves me from my rest

to face thy fierce expres­sion.

Thou art my most ungain­ly guest –

Con­temp­tu­ous obses­sion.


Thy facts con­spire to mar my day –

besmirch my best illu­sion.

They force my fan­tasies away –

Unfor­tu­nate delu­sion.



Abstrac­tion seems deter­mined

to come between me and my brain.

Cre­at­ing new neu­roses there

that my mind can scarce con­tain.