Gangsta Nietzsche

you can not conduct yourself in sanctuary like a saint
the blood goes off in your ears like bullets
your hand muscles squeeze
the neck of your newspaper's brain
to incoherent wrinkles
you     the anger cocaining you
you are superman without philosophy
your flight     you would have
is under the earth
conducted chilled without breathing

i dreamed
last night
that from the sidewalk i dove and flew
above the heads of businessmen
that gravity did not stop me
that friction did not tire me
that i looked up and saw the sky and soared
amongst its blue and the clarity of its clouds

you     who would die in this
pile of superman shit:
that your whole trip
is to learn to fall down
that your death
is rapidfire and energizing
is bullshit
you     who will be present
at your own funeral






fro The Troubles (1993)