The moment of my death is uncertain,
how I cease to continue to survive
enters my consciousness as fantasy.
My death is the solipsistic curtain
of theater and weak philosophy,
my death, I can speak glibly while alive,
even to rhyme against dark history,
not forgetting Adorno's pronouncement
troubled Paul to drown in the Seine, Sophie.
Of course, his suicide was not by chance
for survivors exist in their own world.
Maybe Celan died to remain in France,
yet, Theodor's edict, a flag unfurled.
Despite the pomposity, this statement,
even if it appears valid, still stinks;
as for me, writing poetry is life,
to reflect on all of life is beauty,
honored observations for one who thinks.
If to proclaim my barbaric yawp sounds
stale, hackneyed, even trite, against the knife
Upon which poets walk, thus my duty:
not to serve God, King and Country as lies,
created by our leaders to set hounds
empirical of logic and science
remarkably to retrieve wayward souls,
to proclaim the barbaric as conscience
aspires to remedy against the ghouls
in philosophic circles who despise
notions of verse as a bloody fountain.
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