you call yourself a

man of failure, poor faith and

trite, then what am i

dear soldier, far away,

what am i? ineloquence,

uncouth, unimpressive,

a lump of coal in the

artistic world's stocking

and i'm dying, screaming out these

hastily-thought and ill-conceived

phrases, like dim lights on a

pharmacy sign, in need of

repairs, but never with enough funds to

call the cable guy and tell him

"light's out," make him go back

to sleep, to dream,

perchance, maybe then

i'll exist

rather than be

existential.