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Hero or fraud, healer or charlatan,
witch doctor or snake oil liar,
my fire flickers where smoke follows
beauty, or so they say,
or so the soul baked such,
the which sifted through the much,
smiles an honest curve
brave enough to bend
perspective into dimension.
I’ve danced on rooftops with plywood sails-
danced over beams less the width of my sole,
plié and pirouette through sweet smoke dreams-
light of foot, yet heavy sweat brow
carving the plans of men
subject to Pythagorean tools
objectifying Euclidean proof
and when I finish, all of me,
the craft, the medium, the portals
(therewith lies the formulae
that connect beginning with
endless straightline infinite
through eternity) the act
unhanded to ignorant possession
from prophecy to substitute constituent,
proxy of sloth, sublet by whore to traitor.
The much (too much) have I borne for where?
A cloth and leather I chose to wear
for mystic languor, sycophant fare.
I wore the oil, sold the stage
a relic of geometric lineage-
mounted the ridge in testament
to test my God, tempt the wrath
or declare myself elegant
only to find the such silent,
to find the which mute, impotent.
As 22, just 39 and still don’t mind dying-
not now for renown as then,
but for teaching an honest bend
brings perspective to dimension.