the well considered glass of drink
sat by the well considered gun
while consideration cinders
lit the spiral staircase down.
the kid paused on the stair
considering a considerable pun.
shall i let my pain become faith,
shall i let it turn my head,
shall i sing in pitchless tune,
shall i break troth with the dead?
i could return to my desk
or could descend the stair,
it seems the choices equal
and equality is always fair;
it seems i’m just stuck,
it’s hell chosen or hell provided;
walk down the fall or be pushed,
i haven’t decided if i’ll take it like a man or
suck the hitch of the devil’s truck.
shall i repay kindness with indifference,
shall i butter your monkey bread,
shall i better myself with company,
shall i break troth with the dead?
the ill contendered question roost
fed the fox caterwaul
to the point of obesity; boom and bust.
they’re open ended
for opera tickets, for one night nothing
piled on nothing until the sheer amount of it
can convince a something;
behind the sturdy fence
the boys paper-rock-scissors
to swim a first taste for a boost.
shall i climb up on your wheel,
shall i bust your fucking head,
shall i connive to be your lover,
shall i break troth with the dead?
23.48 26.9.95
