Stein

have I been there,
or, had I been there,
to be direct, another porch
another hello, another goddam
another dingy coat, head for the hills
just to feel, oh, just to feel, I guess,
head for your lives, it's one thing to strive,
another to survive, clingers on, wasting time,
should I have want to illuminate
why would I want to romanticize
a tome of holy lullabies for death,
let daisies circle my halo like a head,
there's nothing like a fall from the last steps,
I'm hanging out with the worst of them,
we're all fucked up,
I'm looking at a simple man
pick the small straw from my hand,
a lot is lesson sent,
for hail and high mercy,
the street lamp flickering sense,
nom: resistance,
what is it I cannot comprehend,
is there any stone in this river still thirsty,
is there any exile still at home with friends?
O cite quasi morte,
how your vines have wrapped around my bones,
I couldn't stop or put it down
and I began to rock and moan,
a dusky sort of pale pillow
if I were to call the kettle
and let you really know
the secret of my black heart
I would be unfit to show.

Sonnet Five

What can one do, if it's the trial of the self,
no, that's not exact-

What can anyone do or say to me
when my spirit is depressed? Is it due,
do my actions create an angry sea?
I understand the choice is not the crew's.
When I lose my ability to speak,
when my heart keeps on graving images,
when I find no comfort and I am weak,
when my presence is full of blemishes.
What is this, is it a transcendent grace?
Is Poetry a sensual pleasure?
If there is suffering what is the base?
Is there more to life than seeking leisure?
Passion dies by reason with love's reform,
but reason dies to passion in my storm.

Kierkegaard too,

and I, an American, too,
you know the sort of thing,
the one question for Camus, 
my raison d'etre is absurd.