I am dissatisfied with
this chaotic soup, this disruption
and lawless unstructure: Life.
The laws of Gravity, Physics, and Nature
constantly crooked and violated by science:
Men with minds, machines and money
to bribe the Gods.
Yet, at thirty-five, I am impotent against
even the inclination of my watch to tell time
or not; the telephone in my room to abide
to silence; the green blades on my lawn to grow,
or die. I am no Master.
Tomorrow I will be God.
The trees shall stand erect and uninterrupted
at my decree; the wind shall answer when I speak,
and upon my direction, whisper my name;
the sky will know sadness and mourn my moods
when they are black; and I shall hold dominion
over the stars, and every atom will know this New God
who shall be me.
Today I see things for how they are:
My cat stretches in the mild afternoon sun,
yawns openly, then proceeds to gnaw
on blades of grass in my backyard.
Overhead, the wind ignores us both
while teasing the leaves.
I tell her to stop.
She does not listen.