You god,
more or less parable. A generator
silvering the screen
beyond good sight. A dog
in the flower shop
of life. Who aren’t you,
harnesser of catastrophes absurd
and cerebral.
Man versus nature versus
the audience. I too am weary
of roots. Tired of poetry in its slick
unfolding. I the gunk
and the passion. We both born
doubters of perfection. Why have faith
when I accept the art of it,
spontaneous as maggots emerging
from the flesh. Uncaring where
or how to exist.