Revise
By J. Camp

I want the power
Of revision.
I want to take
A phrase, a line,
A word from my life,
And line it out,
Reorder, shake it
Together and
See if it works
Better a new way,
The order, the
Formula having
Gone wrong.
For we are not
Great men,
You and I, we
Yell in the roadways,
Vulgar and unkempt,
Drunk and stumbling
We steal the
Silk purse and
Empty it,
Vomiting our alleged
Truth of who
We are
Into any ear
Willing or unwilling
To receive.
I want to reset,
Return the figures
To their shelves, the
Racers to the
Starting line, though
Crass and uncaring,
We lie to
Each other, creating
Our largess out of
Unfulfilled dreams,
Whine and cajole
And medicate
Our sorrow
In a variety show
For the doomed.
We are not
The cupola or
The arches or
Even the
Columns in the
Temple of humanity,
We are merely
Stairs, necessary
But unremarkable,
Trod upon by
Others, greater
Than ourselves.
More disciplined
They step on our
Inconsequential
Existences as
We feed on
The beauty that
Falls from their pockets.
We are here,
But already forgotten,
Without purpose
Or destiny,
The story of
Our sordid lives
Written by
A pencil with
A raw eraser.
I am a useless
Bag of flesh,
No sonata, nor
A great symphony
Have I penned,
Nor a work of
Art by my
Hands hangs in
The place where
Inspiration is
Born.
My song does not
Fill the airwaves,
Capturing the
Moments of
Life in tones,
Recording our
Histories nor
Telling our stories
Of men of toil,
Men of dirt,
Waiting sadly
In the lines
Of bureaucracy,
Waiting for
My free ride,
Waiting to screw
The system,
Falsify records,
Defraud and
Steal so I
Can stuff
My weasel face
With the feast
Of ill-gotten gains.
No poem of
Mine is clutched
By the young
Student, dog-eared
And folded
To be saved and cherished,
Nor am I quoted
By the knowing,
Or celebrated,
Or honored since
I do nothing
But consume
What I have learned.
Nothing done but
Sorrow brought
And the worst
Kind disguised
In the threads
Of my meager wardrobe,
A testament to
The futility of birth,
I win no contest,
I grace no cover,
My eyes do
Not pierce through
The micro-cosmos,
With the great
Lenses, uncovering
The cures
For the diseases
I myself foster
Through my impudence
And disregard
For others.
I am the darkest
Mix of nothingness,
The irrelevant
Ennui that
Consumes the
Days leaving no time
To make a mark,
Effect a change,
Groveling and superficial,
I dance through
Murky paths,
Speaking without authority
On many subjects,
Ignoring the
Understanding of
The fact that
I continue to live
Through the grace
Of the proof of
My inalterable story.