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.

Temporate.

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.

The 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 preachings on the news,

am I so convoluted with part truths

that I now believe that their small differences

are apparent to logic, to life.

Is it I believe

that there must be some measure of order to graduate,

to classify as life?

So back to the god.

Back to the politic of life.

Certainly there is no fairness.

Certainly god has no conscience.

God must be a vegetable of flesh,

No religion can truly make claim to it.