Tribute

an urge of self-celebration
of self-mockery, i could be
a better man than this, if only
but the carpet needs dusting
my books need shelving
from their piles on the floor and i
am among the piles and waiting
for voice-uttered deliverance
from theeverlonelystateofthings
objects—the black desk with its white lamp
the silver trumpet with its Title
the pictures crooked and cups with pencils
yellow Post-Its clung like clammy palms
“buy a calculator for STAT” (i am
the self-conscious statistic, caked
in hydrocortisone cream and
bills, beliefs and worries)
all i’ve assumed, but if i ejaculate
them from my grasp, un-dread
them from my figure, flee
to the fields to join the animals, I
’d become Myself—singular
essential, organic, wholly
complete and perfectly
mad.