I do not know, anymore,
What to write, what to say;
How to think, how to act,
How to find my own way.

The Church, The State,
Their self-serving Satraps—
Sclerotic Scholar, Sanctimonious Scold,
Right-radio play, Limo-liberal outrage—
Always beat me to it,
Always have their way.

Anyway, what if I could?
If I could have my way,
And say what I should,
Without fear (though not
Without pain),
Without a whit to gain:
To the myriad murdered,
The millions maimed
In my name?
To the unborn Other, who will—
Doubtless—
Be meted the same?

How should I tell them of my time,
Of what happened, where, when?
Of who did what to whom (and why)?
I've somnambulated a half-life but,
Strangely, less than a quarter remains--
If that--
To writhe how I want;
To tell what I must before death
Deconstructs my body (and soul?).

Here it is—straight from the heart.
(Never mind that I said:
"I don't know" at the start.)

Born we may (it's not ours to say),
Die we must; it's a no-brainer,
A banal cliche;
But the in-between is all.
Between before-now and after-then--
Between baby's wail and Charon's sail--
Lie heaven, hell, god and devil,
Good, bad, holy and evil.

To the lies, first:
There is no heaven,
No hell, no god,
No devil, no good,
No bad; though,
Of these two, last,
It is hard—so hard—to tell.

And now to the truth:
If truth be told: Who is to tell
Whether it, too, is fictitious
As are heaven, hell?
The in-between is all—
Before it all ends
And after it all starts—
The learning, the earning
The loving and sexing
The marrying, for some,
For some, the begetting.