Ten Thousand Poems

Expertise has Damocles to thank
For its validation
If death must answer every question
Then progress can be made
In counting the seconds

Or in our case
One more order of magnitude
Than a thousand hours
Takes the simple amatuer
To the exaltation
Of professional, perfectional,
Confessable valor

Made to stick by the analysts
Whose risk-aversion
Is the best cognitive bias
For making a Van Gogh
Worth fifty black market livers
Among the richest alcoholics
That call capitalized isms their homes

What if I'm here with simple verses
Rather than a rich Manhattan
Whiskers grow toward the floor
If they are as ungroomed as 
A given poet

Wishing for faith 
But failing to trust
Any sort of goddish helper
While losing a self
In the operatives of language

A covert intelligence
That may never be uncovered
As it's always prosecuted
Soviet or American't

Belt drives and flashes
Into sight
Out of ear
Shot in the mind
By darkness, invited to 
The cartwheel

In the middle of losing lunch
To the obsession of another 
Minute aphorism
To say why shadows
Haunt the lighted 
In an organ that could never
Be for sale
At least not in this market
Bullies, bearies, and stock

Pokers have faces,
According to the selection
On a big flat rectangle,
But ignorance is piss
In a wind always in the face

So seeing and observing
And even fighting
Will lead to epic proportions
One to chief executive nonsense

Always desirable, power, yes,
Will it!
That's the super-always-bestie
Who never says bounded equilibrium
In the eyes of a bioluminescent metabolism

Over-syllabic treatise that meanders
Past and prologue
Epi-pen in the beestorm
Against the allergic concatenations
Of a pollen spring

Screwed into a soft drywall
Only to be torn asunder once more
In the service of art!
Take the ear!
It's a pinky finger, for balance alone

And sketch what you see
In words
Until the end is in sight
And then frame it
For all of your sins

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