How love burgeons in every wind…
Great are the mysteries
The fantasies,
The wars, the pestilences,
The romances, the great deeds of heroes
Or the great failures of our average men.
Soon, the political ideologue
Puts me at offense
Therefore I must rebut him.
So much of my writing was against one particular ideologue.
The one who says, “You can’t.”
I can’t… because I can’t.
I tremor… a thousand sex fantasies
Become the object d’art
Becomes chefs d’oeuvre,
Become a Magnum Opus.
Where is my greatest work?
I don’t know…
What frightens me
Greatly,
Isn’t simply not being listened to.
It’s being great…
A great man when I never was.
Throw the money to the wind…
I still need this to be my pedigree,
My PhD,
To get the job I want
At the food bank or salvation army.
Great is my degree, my thesis
My studies. My mastery.
All stemming from a girl
In High School and a TV show
With a certain red head.
How many times have I made love to them
In my daydreams.
Those daydreams now in my sleeping dreams
Where I make love every night
And wake up feeling filthy and disgraced.
Wanton glory, only fame
Great is the vice of that idol.
I do not want saved.
I want… for lack of a better term—
Since I am already saved—
I want to cure Hecate’s Luck
In an acquaintance.
That is why I write this poetry My Soul…
Perhaps the demons I have seen exorcised from myself
Perhaps those demons can be exorcised
If my heroes beat them in those complicated verse.
What I write is not a love poem…
Rather, acquaintanceship,
And a sincere respect.
How many gospel messages have I spoken to you?
How many homilies?
Yet, you listen. Thankful I am that you do…
For, I am frustrating I know.
I won’t leave this time…
Why did I get frustrated?
Everyone in my life hated this art…
Told me it was worthless.
Priceless, it was like calling my soul worthless.
My soul, you’d understand.
Better than any,
How the beginning was just a place
To relieve the frustration of never having been in love…
At least for me.
Later, the soliloquies became homilies,
Homilies became prophecies,
Prophecies became urgent diatribes
Against a country that never did me any harm.
Fearful… I have dreams.
Fretful, I scream to my nation not to let those dreams come true.
I walk in the state park.
The embankment is reminiscent of a long fought war
Eons ago. I think my feet had been on the mountain…
Now how do I perform my solemn vows?
I do not know… My soul…
A listener… I make counsel with you
As is said in David’s psalms.
Rather, I don’t write you a love poem;—
How can I love myself?
An extension of who I am
Under the luck of Hecate’s
Spell… the Felix Felicis
Which gives me luck.
Drunken wine, meed,
I know what the drunkenness is.
Never feeling touch…
Being afraid…
Seeing what you want so nigh
Yet it seems impossible to grab.
When it’s successfully grabbed
O my soul,
What would you do with it?
Drink of the luck potion?
The potion that saps all unkind thoughts away?
Rather, I’m drunk on my not being a success.
Not that I don’t want success, O my soul.
To burgeon into greatness
When I am not great…
It is not my song.
Understand I sabotage myself
For good reasons.
What is the man who gained the whole world
But lost his very soul?
O my soul…
I shan’t lose you?
Shall I?
The hopes and dreams?
I preserve my soul, and the hopes and dreams
Rather than the melancholy reality
Of Felix Felicis;
That by luck I falter
Into a great tailspin.
By succeeding,
I lose my very soul.
Modesty… understand
O my soul?
I do not wish to suffocate
But rather let you breath.
What am I with success?
Especially when I am unable to wield it?
Like Prometheus, I grab the lightning
And wield it wrong…
Save me a cup of water
And we’ll drink from the same cup.
For, I do not wish to wield lightning
With luck, and therefore strike
Down the goodness of my soul.
I rather want to wield a leaf
And have it turn, and bring comfort to Zion.
My soul…
The Witchen Queen whom Beowulf beat
Is any foul brew, any enslavement. Say the silent prayer
For every silent hour of doubt.
Soon, you will awaken a little earlier
Because soon the willpower comes.
B. K. Neifert 