The spite chair (can one tap souls as one taps trees?)

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
and 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?


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