Life could be a fool with six partners,
a man with six things to do,
with one pair of hands and one brain
with two halves.
What more is there to say or do?

If I wasn’t thinking of perhaps becoming a vegetarian,
I might go to the flower bed and eat worms.
Big fat pinkish brown worms, gorged on earth,
succulent and viscous with loud screams.
Nameless worms. Worms without families.

Temperate.
The worm is cerebral ganglia,
continual stomachs,
clitellum with seminal vesicles and receptacles,
but still a vegetable of flesh.
Clearly no contradiction for consumption
by those who don’t eat meat.

All those things that bothered me when I was young,
when I was poor,
when I always felt a measure less,
always under, looking up,
all those things don’t haunt me
with the same power as they did then.

There is strength in the niggardly times of life.
Weakness is the inability to draw them forth
and make power
from those small trembling feelings that you have.
Am I so different?
Am I so compelled to struggle
against all the foreign preaching on the news,
am I so convoluted with part truths
that I now have come to believe that their small differences
are apparent to logic, to life.
Is it that I have come to believe
that there must be some measure of order to graduate,
to classify as life?

As to the Gods, the politic of life;
there is no fairness, they have no conscience, they must be vegetables of flesh, fat and pink, succulent and viscous with loud screams.
Nameless, without families