To A Fellow... Poem by RIC BASTASA

i am reading every writing on the wall
the letters are so cold, like the arms of a dead man
defeated,
nothing interests me really, except myself, after having gone into same wars with you,
the self above self, that seems to be the golden rule now for survival
the mind must circumnavigate its own world,
convoluted upon its intestines
its own trails
it is you that i am worried about, the moron, the destitute,
the loquacious duck on the pond,
there is no map, and so you have no direction at all,
circular in motion, arriving at
no train station
i give you time, a cup of hours, we drink it,
i watch every syllable that your mouth is mumbling
because i am worried about what the child in you is saying
i hear every vowel there and pay attention to the power of
your consonants,
that which you cannot say, or that which cannot be ever said
fool, God's fool,
we are, and you the moron that mumbles what you cannot really understand
is king,
the wise man, that baby crawling under the bed
in the middle of the bridge as we watch
the tilt
if you fall, we all die.