The spite chair

1x brasilian
 2x moves
 2x affairs
 2x concussions
 3x jobs
 4x jobs ax
 2x big legal axn, HK, Agnes-ity
 10x new tires
 1500 track miles
 $50k much over-spending mania, Pgonia, Hugo Boss, outta work
 2x new dogs
 1x big accident
 20x stitches
 1x titanium plate
 10x new pairs o pants
 4x new jackets
 11x broke bones and
 3x mos to sit w this shit in my lap
 see how it all rests on my both-broken shoulders and those to whom i’m
 no ya available: Peper, Carliot, Karen S, Yvonne B, who else have I
 fkkd over, oh, yea, Ma; and pete w my plns to return to racing and
 maybe Erica w my exploratory attitude to being in a step-father rshp w
 Ms Brasil
 and who else have i fkkd over?
 and i learned o life in fear, where one
 returns not phone calls
 and speaks not one’s mind
 and sits in The Spite chair
 ans sulks
 and shits one’s own bed
 and sits-stays there and prepared to fk over Ma & Pete’s generosity by
 returning to the track in pure betrayal o them & Haley
 and the pure sort o selfishness o wh i detest in my father, where, he,
 as a rolling stone gathers no moss in the high desert and me, the
 same, only in my rolling, i crush delicate lichen
 i strip the moss fr the shaded sides o their spirits
 the sides they protect,
 they turn to me and i go in w cork-cutters and acid breath and stop
 them the years o moss and wool they’ve gathered and placed carefully
 in decoration of their persons
 and i can’t even rise to the level o JFRaymo, where he learned his
 limits, where he made a deal ;
 nor like Stuart, father to Lucia, Yves
 and I am a sonofabitch
 and would they have just let the air escape my lungs and be done w it
 for by living i hurt all others
 and by self-killing i hurt my daughter
 so who gets to win?
 upon whom do i bestow the prize o peace?
 who gets to live w/o pain fr me?
 and who gets to die after my fashion for the good ot many?
 and why not killed that day on the track?
 what maleficent god @ play in the fields o WV?
 what pitiless blind god that denies the trail o destruction;
 the several wakes in tow behind me sees them all then sees them not
 or  sadistic bastard  for the stripping o fresh bark;
 the collapsing o many bees to their knees?
 and shooting not bears at sea in tiny craft o tiny disappearing craft
 and knowing not the rules of the road nor the rules o engagement and
 pitiless in his refusal to put a bullet to the head o Levon helm, to
 put one bullet to my head and save the others the deluge o fusillade
 spare the others the machines o war w cams & springs and endless
 screws and random drum beats and ogic rounds into semi-vital organs
 but not sudden organs that would offer up a generous cinema death
 let me count the dead
 i shall enter the bsmt and count the counted coup
 and failing that forgiving life-giving bullet; i shall ride into
 battle again
 and i shall slay innocents & pike their skulls and count their coup
 and garotte their children
 and burn their forests down
 and strip them o their spears
 and leave a scorched trail o tears in the wake
 my legacy and the Nez Perce shall ride no more, they shall only walk
 in inadequate moccasins and the salmon shall run no more so the
 indians fat, gaunten and who is this?
 who is this john Gaunt?
 He of no appleseeds
 he casting no magic into the ground, provisioning not the future
 feeding not next children
 tapping breasts o their milk
 trees o their syrup
 the taps driven into their sides to slow-suck the life o them and i
 tripping gaily gathering buckets fr the woods o the wild things;
 and tipping buckets into cars o coal mines and dipping honey into hell
 for the tongue-less souls below its surface and trident-ed back down
 under the sudden sour sweet sap;
 can one tap souls as one taps trees?
 can one comb spirits
 can one comb hearts as one combs bees?
 and are trees and bees not both at the mercy o those who would
 internally combust who would offer nought but pressure waves into a
 chamber o decimated bones?
 and are bees and trees and bears not all o the same degree?
 are they like the trees in my wood, not wholly on their knees?
 like the bees in my hood
 like the bears in my lairs
 fall failing to the cunning fox
 and for what,
 these songs o despair?

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