Thursday, November 2, 2017


There’s little profit to the prophet
in the proffering of prophecy.
They’re either put in institutions
for the schizophrenic or arrested

for seditious libel or for rousing
to carousal any rabble-rouser
likely to espouse the zillion things
that go against the status quo.

Whatever prophecy they prophesy
they frequently don’t live to see
come true or not come true. Mightily
disliked if it construes a future doom –

unheeded, disbelieved if it foretells
an idiotically unlikely boon, all
in all, a prophet’s propheteering
is a thankless task. It’s no surprise

so many in my own acquaintance
I’ve found foundering at night along
dark piers and wharves in masks,
chugging devil-water out of flasks –

rather as I’ve done and surely more
than once again will do, when yet
another urgent revelation comes,
and drums into me the directive: 



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