‘This is my path; where is yours? For the path – that does not exist!’
Thus Spoke Zarathustra
I am not a poet of the rain,
Or any other pain,
Or even the sun,
Though I would be one,
If Nietzsche hadn’t done it over a century ago.
But I proudly do know,
How to articulate,
And celebrate,
The equality,
And unity,
Of our minds, hearts and sexes,
A notion which still perplexes,
And which I haven’t yet found,
In Dante, Blake or Pound,
Or any other,
Poetic brother,
Or sister,
(Save from several a Jazz Master…)
So here’s my task,
And all I ask,
Is that you wish me well,
Comrades in hell,
So that I not despair,
While doing my share,
Of banging out beauty –
That infamous,
Yet luscious,
Futility.