it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
Plates! Get 'em spinning
Tell everyone you're winning
And hope they don't see the sweat
Your fifteen minutes ain't up yet!


The Dregs

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The solace of sunshine, the peace of rain
I would gather it up, into my silver cup
And drink deep, its secrets I would keep
Pouring like a golden tear, and hear
The last drip, drip, and so slack my grip
And leave the dregs last, in the cold glass
Leave the dregs there! for the brightening air
That breathes life to everyone
   is but the dregs of the sun.


First Numbered

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Six hundred and fifty seven --
How dare one to quantify
To count, that is, the leaven
Cast into the bread of life?
And thereby, see beyond its strife
Counted blessings, they say
None deserved, but each bought
Bought with each numbered day
Won in each battle fought
But to be given as one ought
Be all blessed things, away
As may man to his wife
Now give as he is able
Even to the blood of his life
If it yet be no fable
And each drop counted, then
As the tears even overwrought
And we return once again
Hereafter counting, consider our lot
Not blessings received, but given
Count each candle its lit-match sought;
- Six hundred and fifty seven.


The Sage Considers the Art of Disbelief

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
The thwarted child responds with hate
And the arsenal of all denial
The disbeliever must too reciprocate
Being its likeness all the while.
God, whose subtleties they miss
Is unseen for them to revile
So to fellow-man, a deathly kiss
Will make their inch a mile.


The Poet Conisders the Lights of Heaven

it reads:
"What are the suns, if even
Sol Invictus, runt of their litter
pours more light, through sieving
Than would turn our world to glitter?

"What then must be, even more
The Womb of Stars, that vault
Amid the dusts of heaven's shore
Where each is made without fault?

"And how great is it - this pain
As dusky heaven brings forth her sons
That all of the worlds are but the stain
Of blood and water, from these mighty ones?"


The Crux

it reads:
What man will accept such injury?
Who but the doctor may wield the knife?
I know only what has been shown to me,
That death still is not the same as life.



it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
Reincarnation, of which the poets spoke
May seem to us a foolish joke
And though ne'er transmigrated will I be
My son's the reincarnation of me.