Jack Scott writes

[Part III]

Tetanus, one of many
blood brother godlings
of intravenous pantheon
joins around the fire
burning streambeds crimson,
dry, and scumming all the moats,
sometimes lingers
within the tender blood
when the party’s over.
If you must burn rocket fuel,
get a proper rocket.
Your ticket cost you dearly;
you’re due a longer ride
than three weeks maximum
if your needle’s tetanasty.

You’ll be denied your right
to voice complaint -
also your ability . . .
Shame, shame on you.
Grease that squeaky wheel
lest it run over you.
And patronize a better circus.

God isn’t up,
and compasses are flat and round,
unsound .
It’s unsettling to be so unfound.
Much like history,
travelogue is travesty:
core borings all.
Geography of spirit is terrain
where being found requires confession,
credentials, passports and degrees.
geology as well.
Searching is a strange profession,
rarely overpaid.
Finding’s even rarer,
but is its own reward.
Although maps and charts proliferate
there are far more trails and paths
than can be found upon them.
Wilderness abounds
for those who don’t get lonely
in space that is too large
or small
and won’t settle down
on just one planet.

Musty smell of much hugged pillows
without cases, without softness,
comfort in appearance only,
surrendered to the sheets below,
beyond semblance of concern,
now that urgency’s been fed its bottle.
Dirty needles, dirty now, dirty always,
running sewer pipes containing
urine yellow tears
above a grave of unwept sorrow
as they dry upon the unmade bed
among the other fading smells.
Like the user,
on the outside sometimes clean,
but far less so within.
Why make the bed?
It will be lain in again.
Why go home?
It isn’t there.