Too
few like Job
by
Michael P Amram
swimming for the
nexus of
the universe I
seek some
recognition,
I peek around
corners
blind needing to
know the
keys to
gratification
I want
notoriety—isolation
from that below
average
banner I wear to be.
Drowning in seas of
madness
fights the
depression—an
anxiety of
recidivism—I'm
a pummeled peon who
licks
boots quietly clean
to
get kicked some more
and
finally bleed like a
trusted
brown nose siphoned
dry
from nourishing its
leech,
And I sell my soul
to God
for adequate success
I fathom the
universe to
calculate the odds
of
winning in this life
without
a name—without a
lottery
ticket to make a
claim—on
everything that's
good when
this life waits out
of reach.
I sell my soul to my
god
for a moderate
belief
in myself—a wager
of time
I calculated to
expire my
life on the shelf—so
I
pay the price to be
hailed
on a dirigible,
swimming
again to a nexus of
clouds
that total the end.
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