6925. DRAWING WATER, ALL I CARRY IS GRIEF

DRAWING WATER, ALL 

I CARRY IS GRIEF

I have here the entablature of Hell, a true and

circumstantial realm. Look at my hands, they are

all worn out. That's not a henna tattoo, you fool

it's paint. There are two things you can give me

sometime or other, as a gift, OK? Time, and space.

If you don't mind. I want to spread out. (Oh give me

land, lots of land, 'neath the starry skies above; don't

fence me in...). Well, that wasn't me, no, but it's a

song from a long time ago, when land was still free.

-

I can't shout about things any longer; having lost both

my enthusiasm and my voice. My eyesight is shot; I

have ten pound glasses needed to see. The cheery lane

I lived upon is now a superhighway filled with people

driving their cars on their own ways to hell. Sartre said
 'No Exit'. He was right, and he also said,
'Hell is other people.' Yeah.

-

No pizazz in my Kool-Aid doubt, no sideshow in my

limousine. The carny cut the cards, and now he's living

like a King. I am broad-shouldered, but all I carry is grief.