Stand Up Straight

I am penning God,

Fingers of spears cupping the belt buckle,

Back against the fly-handle,

Waiting to fly off the handle

The fox, he asked to be tamed,

And I replied, "of what?", 

He sighed and cried again, the 

Forest refreshed itself and reopened

It's hyperlink, I felt everything in those days.

The belt buckle. The bed ring of

The broken sleep-spring, it roars

Paralysis upon the statue of my faith,

The blizzard hasn't rained in 50 years,

The people sing, still. The little blue

Mattress is a symptom, not a diagnosis,

They say. It is my way, my only way

Toward the Death-ban. They keep us

Like rabbits, limbs for the taking,

For the luck, for the forced f**k,

We are their walking reindeers. 

We glamour out, fade out,

Glamour gone. The fox, he asked to

Be named, this time, and I said,

"You are what?" the language is

Lost on me. He sighs and cries again.

It is gone. The yellow rope. 

It is gone. The mountain scope.

I am a barrel of feeling, future,

And I am Jesus, Jesus I am -

My soles pinned to this bedroom floor,

My palms have the holes they would 

Look for, if they were looking at all,

They are not. I am chained, after all.

I am only seventeen lights years

In the humane bays of your sea-struck

Lightening-rained tide, but I am

A million untouched years of

Nothing wanted. I am only Jesus spawn,

The product of His porn, nothing

Less than you or I or they, but I feel

The blizzard, even though it hasn't rained

In 50 years, and I, of all people,

Should hear the people sing, if they would let me

In, if they would, if they would. I am

A mountain bear without teeth.

They run from me like a storm.

I haven't broken one roof.

They scream at me like dawn.

I am full of opportunities.

But, en fin de compte, after all,

I am only as good as my efforts.

And, chained to the floor, like Jesus,

I am no saint. I am here for no cause,

I am here for no reason. As it turns

Out, my pain hurts only me, and 

Will continue to run the same way

Until my very last little day.

I thought, when all this was over,

I could be my own martyr. Of what,

They ask? I wouldn't tame or name the fox.

I couldn't even rain when they asked me to.

I have passion spitting up, bubbling

Like a three-witch stew, but it all means nothing

If I cannot speak the language I have no ear for,

It hurts, it really does, to be so stupid, when I am really just a fox.