FLESH OF THE FAITH

FLESH OF THE FAITH

some buffoon
they call and
who calls
himself
a philosopher
slipping between
jokes
   and profundity
fires away

name of the game
dance
    of truth, not
so easy to work out
the steps
   world and self what
they want to say
for themselves
despite themselves
so damn intricate
so hard to
    pin down when
in this labyrinth every
level brings
fresh layer
  of deception

and why
must he always
touch
   his nose?

is that some
kind of tic, sign of
secret brotherhood or
silent spiritual homage
to H and L and
M his
   forebears and yes,
masters

meanwhile I am continuing
this badly scripted
life story
   my tale of desire
full of
twists and turns but
no story to speak
of itself

an iron wall
    dystopian stuff with
digital chip on
the shoulder, chip
in the brain patriarchal
body guards
stretching between my
heart and its object
wherever that
object, whenever it
should
   come into being

that the motor, engine of
everything should
be loss
   and distance, incompleteness
and sadness

great for Slovenian
thinker, South African poet,
though
    getting it down in all
its harrowing
complexity
      could be an industry
might
not
    keep your warm at night
(flesh
    of the faith to
deeply
    hold on to) may
not even pay the rent at all