Only the railings hum my name,
The candelabra's dripped in sadness
But it's at the void, not me,
There's nothing left of that, some strange
Undisclosed condition of witnessing.
I am at best a bird looking in,
At worst a service monkey
Looking for tips and kept from thievery
By the very love that enslaves me,
The need to value what is not mine
And never will be.
Enter the Great American Con Man
Who no longer has to say I'm invisible
Because I did not whistle loudly enough
How it's the amount of evil used to acquire power
That is the only standard of right in the universe,
So my value is non-existent, he says,
And he only keeps me around because of all men
(He of course would never say this) I can give him
The most with the least disagreement, and
Offer the highest percentage of my soul,
Most of which, the part with no opportunity for ridicule,
He will indifferently leave there, or spit out, or throw
In disgust on the floor, sometimes laughing,
Sometimes stamping it out in his spats like George Raft
Doing Al Capone doing Caligula.
But even I know I'm not kept around for that, I am kept
To keep his protector from unrelieved misery.
He would, he claims, acknowledge my existence
If what I said had any relevance. The collected teachings
Of the ages I didn't keep to myself. I raised a lip,
A brow, an objection of any sort one too many times,
He calmly informs me, or would if these bones were real.
What will he do
When I take away his car, his room, his home, his food,
His family, and send him out with nothing into the world?
I've pondered long and hard this difficult question
And realize my torments will finally end only when
I can honestly, happily, blissfully, with all the heart
Of the cosmos, say, final answer, "I will be free."
