as i dig into the story behind my story, i find both paper & penned trails, as well as computer document tracks, that record, down the the minute, when such as this poem was first composed & then saved. here are the first-run words to Jacob, the poem that would in days morph into the version i published at huffington post on december 10, 2014, which, a couple short – & inspired – days later would be laid down as a first draft of the full story. jacob was later published & the first edition illustrated hardback is available at eBay; the 2nd edition for kindle or print on demand is at amazon
JACOB One thousand one One thousand two Better better me than lonely, lowly thee One thousand three One thousand four Enoble mankind’s superfluousness with the virtue that is poverty An absent income is a higher, holier riches spent Why the pithy monk can do this Every hour ‘neath the shadows of riches the loyal dog remains bent In supplication In contrived obeisance To those for whom intended is the worldly best If any such man can do it Well then, any man should And he does And when he is done And done is did He can still find rank amongst Gutter captains and derelict kings As spare holes in the hills in silent testament lie Mouths of babes spared of greedy, ceaseless cries One thousand five One thousand six When nothing’s broken What’s there to fix? One thousand seven One thousand eight Oh midas, thy name is anthem One thousand nine Pull up your own bootstraps however shredded For I have long since pulled up mine One thousand ten Not In My Back Yard One thousand eleven Out of sight, out of my mind Twelve I don the rose colored glasses Thirteen I strap on the blinders Fourteen I hide behind tri-colored veils Fifteen I lock myself within stony walls Sixteen I vow to keep my prosperity in Seventeen All the more to keep you out Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, all mine Fine Fine is my day Lovely whispers my breeze Spiced with the fragrance virtue Aye it reeks here on high But here I stand, light of foot, Suspended on the strength of all my good, good deeds No stench to curl the lip No ugly to furl the brow Let your gene pool dilute its own self And hunt itself down with inborn stealth Bred of need and of want Fed on the bitters of fruitless dreams My gates are monogramed JM I see only padlocks on all others December 10, 2014 1pm
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