Invocation of the Self

[poe]

The sky knows itself, its not my mind.
I'm walking in dissent of happiness,
not a happy thing.

I'll sweat like a star trying to make itself.
I'll wear Stockton street like the robe of many colors and
no one will speak to me.

I'd like to discard the disgust of my generation.
I find my friends squeezing honesty into tubes
to sell in the marketplace. Because
truth is too painful to let alone.
I must shuffle it around, carve into it, I must twist it like clay.
I must make it myself out of litter, urine, and tongues.
I must slap to sense the sky that won't talk.
Stuff newspapers into mouths of strangers.

I must trust that nothing makes sense and harmony is an ancient code.
That difficulty is the only way.