Crouched carefully on cold tiles

a chemical trance to see clearer

hands pulling strands

drinking too much again

The armies lie waiting

deep in the valley of Jezreel

Have we been here before

Oh lord let me remember

the last Magnus Annus

to see if it is to be

in the past cycle

of eternal return

Are these pieces worth the paper

the dead trees

only this age knows and will know again

or is my hot pursuit futile

better spent in the cold

insufferable pursuit of a career

I pour rejection into my cocktail shaker

five to ten shakes

will it taste bitter

or in time turn sweet

Oh lord cast upon me Gideon’s fortune

and let the morning dew

seek none but my cloth

so the answer may be without fog unveiled

For it seems my art

is the best of my offerings

but the worst of all offerings

of art