when the stars did write

upon the sky, fingers of lines, dippers above, those are the same ones you see in england, africa, or everywhere else. tests ask what kids are going through in their high school years and 90% are going through the same things, even more. how can you hate me so much even though i am a man who loves to be hated, maybe in your heart of arts, your tarot twists, your arabesque of tongues, you can tell me how wrong i am. but how spend a river of time in speech, ripples of vowels sticking out like mini-mountains. there is really nothing to love and hate outside of jung and your refined manners could woo the gods to love... how protected you are in your fortinbras, shielded from the arrows of fate or enemies, how strange you seem, please forgive me my trespasses and do not wound me beyond indifference lest i throw up a lung or something. the ineluctable modality of the visible, joyce calls it, all the things around us, matter prevents us from seeing,,, everything seems to come from something else and our individuality is lost and our prides and prejudice swept away, no discrimination. just let everything in... south korea already does that... and then you become a shamanistic culture, going beyond and beyond until your reason explodes like firecrackers and you go into a land of the spirits where you meet your ancestors and find out god is your first ancestor... this is not true. beyond and beyond and beyond and you go into madness the women in the basement, the panther in the basement as amoz oz may say or 2 psychotics in bed as saul bellow may say and you are crazy as an individual but society seems to be fine... you've become a shaman, soaking in the sickness of society and internalizing it, but why do artists do that and why do sean penn and bono defend that asshole german nihilist bohemian charles bukowski although he's a pretty damned good poet i must admit but he is another phoney superman dying of alcoholism and lack of any feeling drowned by drink hey i got a fucking great idea, let's kill ourselves with truths about each other, what ordinary fuckheads we all are, and that would be conscience, wouldn't it? so what was my question? why do you hate me. really nothing much to hate. just bones, marrow, and other things. much more to love for being a sorry thing like a scarecrow. so love me as you must to keep your sanity.