We seem to forget

that the future

is ours to elect,

that there's always

that line

to write in

our own pick,

to cross

as we see fit

and nobody

else has control

or ever

has to know.

Majority rule

depends

on all of us, too:

there must be

an odd man

to even

the others out,

the third party crowd

to decide

which of the two

should be allowed

their turn

at the wheel,

but we still

need the balance

checked every

once in a while.

According to the

census of the senses,

we've got six,

we've got sickos

and sex-crazed

individuals,

conformists,

uniforms and

civilians,

although the civility

of the above

cannot be

at all times

accounted for.

But the numbers

keep increasing,

and soon enough

our number will be up,

the servers will be down,

and everything

will be breaking:

up, down, out

and dance around

to the music

and the sound

of anonymity,

eternity,

fraternity

without enmity,

and then we'll see

the clearance

and interference

of dust flying

from the rubble

we roused,

the trouble

we espoused

from the bubble

world we created

and caroused in.

And true to our

selves and original sins,

we'll choke on the fruits

we've belaboured

and stolen

from the high holy

No One

governing us all

since our first

and final

eve's fall,

and a damn

great shame it was.

But we're not all babes

in our mangers

lulled by that sweet

reptilian rattle

but rather

we have our asp

handed to us

with no epic battle

and guilty

we look

for anyone else

to blame,

but our goat

has been gotten

and the grand

scape of land

forgotten—

it's rotten

luck, but

we take what's given;

regardless, derision

rewards less

but often

satisfies the tempest.

Hurry, Cain,

to disable

your own life,

to engender

the genesis

of hatred

and entitlement

to the detriment

of your offspring,

whose necks

you've coiled on

a century's long,

a weighted noose.

Hang our heads

with certain depth—

a dark abyss

is hard to miss

unless you're borne

from one unto another

and know no other

lightlessness.

In the dark, more locks

without cause or keys

keep us like cattle

bound, above ground

but below the airy sky.

We wonder whether eagles fly

out of force of habit or

for the sheer enjoyment

of skimming heaven

with their wings,

whereas we must wax poetic,

merely dreaming of feathers

between our fingers

and freedom from

the ordinary plane,

the tract we run

from sunrise to

the setting in our grave.

But think we not

of these matters,

for this mortality

only flatters us

with promises

of brief eternities:

love, fame, fortune—

nay, say that love

will endure through time;

I believe it, even

with my douts

that Someone

is keeping tally,

taking bets,

collecting dues

and paying out

according to

some cosmic,

chaotic lottery

where our chances

are infinite

to nonexistent.

Luck is a certain thing,

evidenced by

our standing here,

our rank above

all else in

our immediate sphere,

where certainty

has a very unlikely

probability, as

you've probably heard.

So, these words

have spoken

truths and lies,

but to anybody's eyes

they predicate

the thoughts of one

lone human being

who, being human,

wants the world

to bend an ear,

lend a hand,

mend a heart,

send thanks,

give without taking,

or, forsaking

all else, leave

the world no worse

for the weary

souls inhabiting

this circle of life

we call home.

TMK 4/6jan2009