A Song for Myself

I judge My soul Eagle Nor mole: A man Is what He saves From rot. The corn Will fat A hog Or rat: Are these Dry bones A hut’s Or throne’s? Who filled The moat ’Twixt sheep And goat? Let Death, The twin of Life, Slip in? Prophets Arise, Mask-hid, Unwise, Divide The earth By class and birth. Caesars Without, The People Shall rout; Caesars Within, Crush flat As tin. Who makes A noose Envies The goose. Who digs A pit Dices For it. Shall tears Be shed For those Whose bread Is thieved Headlong? Tears right No wrong. Prophets Shall teach The meek To reach. Leave not To God The boot And rod. The straight Lines curve? Failure Of nerve? Blind-spots Assail? Times have Their Braille. If hue Of skin Trademark A sin, Blame not The make For God's Mistake. Since flesh And bone Turn dust And stone, With life So brief, Why add To grief? I sift The chaff From wheat and laugh. No curse Can stop The tick Of clock. Those who Wall in Themselves And grin Commit Incest And spawn A pest. What’s writ In vice Is writ In ice. The truth Is not Of fruits That rot. A sponge, The mind Soaks in The kind Of stuff That fate’s Milieu Dictates. Jesus, Mozart, Shakespeare, Descartes, Lenin, Chladni, Have lodged With me. I snatch From hooks The meat Of books. I seek Frontiers, Not worlds On biers. The snake Entoils The pig With coils. The pig’s Skewed wail Does not Prevail. Old men Grow worse With prayer Or curse: Their staffs Thwack youth Starved thin For truth. Today The Few Yield poets Their due; Tomorrow The Mass Judgment Shall pass. I harbor One fear If death Crouch near: Does my Creed span The Gulf Of Man? And when I go In calm Or blow From mice And men, Selah! What . . . then?