At the Remington I poemed a dream:
Woe to you, humankind. You have lost your aspirations and thus your wings.
Now, psyche plucked and feather-bare with no legs to compensate where glory flew above the tedium of earth-bound mediocrity, you crawl in sulfur fumes… exactly like a worm.
Exactly like a worm: Devouring the putrid waste and wasting what is not. Genius dead and mourned: You’ve become a democracy of worms; wingless, legless, writhing twisted masses, mired inside of computer banks and throttled by tentacles of credit cards in fields of robot mothers serving up their baby’s toxic memory of a castrated deadbeat father.
Be not afraid. Poor genius is not dead and still owns wings. A worm is no worm. It owns a set of wings… tattered or not: Withs and with-outs; Doubts. Fears; Love; and Hopes.
“Oh, Christ! The Devil is Old,” says the sage; “Grow old and know him!”
Wingless and full of woe, charging headlong on rubber legs… iron willed… like molten lava! Upon this wobbly rock I’ve found my principle, if only for the sake of endurance… I die.
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