I have been to, and through, many odds and ends Prison and failure, the allure of insanity rote power Fist on flesh, and breast in mouth; from the Dog Star - - Sirius to precession's of light, buildings, and noise. And the women -- how they came to go away With endless limp reasons for infinite friction Along the colorless side of traffic, ignored as Many move passed, and by, parallax-ing need. At war, I was, out to get and gut my soul just because I watched families eat one another out of boredom Out of jealousy, the good ol' fashion American way When our old ones die, the vultures renounce order. Perhaps, I remember feeling ancient from the start Different, like there was something I had to believe in Love, or violence -- premonitions, unstoppably vague Knowing better, but erased by birth to dismiss fate. What will I be since I cannot finish anything real? I recall Herman Hesse and his words more than ever My entirety is made up of stories, and compressed dreams Webbed in graph, and accumulation, to serve none. Since I know that I can take nothing with me but Repetitious separation coupled by sin and longing The want of a cure for bad symbolism, and all names Given out of habit and circular supposition when born. As I think of the numbers and victims of circumstance I consider those whose ash I tread upon, on my way To become a man, and prove something to someone about learned behaviour and competitive annihilation. I never thought the day would come along that I could Appreciate the fruit tree equally spaced out in rows So balanced as to respond perfectly to care and work Dependent on man, but only because it wants to be. Is it some secret art, this co-dependency between us Can any man measure the satisfaction of giving life Even as he goes from plow to gun, or horse to car God is most certainly in everything we choose to miss.