From: jtul@polari.com
Subject: The Poverty Line by Fried Frank
Keywords: poem
Organization: Seattle Online Public Access Unix.  (206) 328-4944 (all lines telebit-equipped)
Date: Wed, 8 Apr 1992 06:57:00 GMT


This is a poem by a friend of mine to whom I've given the pseudonym
of Fried Frank.  He is afraid to come out into the public eye.  He is
an alcoholic, who would give away anything he has to anyone in need. 
He is essentially self-educated.  I corrected his spelling, but didn't
add any punctuation. If there are any positive comments, I'll pass them
on to him.

                        The Poverty Line

Its color is pale delicate yellow
I perceive this as I stare up at its belly
It is the color of the pasta piled up on the cupboard shelves.
It has forms varied in size
In length, shape and form
But they neatly mesh
To form a ubiquitous sheet above me
Bland in taste as bagels less lox
Or lard sandwiches seasoned with shame
Glutinous as mucilage garnished with cheese and herbs
But reinforced with fibers of past follies and failures
As rigid as cold steel
As flexible as a trampoline canvas woven from threads extruded by glands
Of fantasies
Of lotto winnings
Of serendipitous finding of
A purse of gold beside a road
A pearl found cheaply
Or perhaps a friend not quite all a friend
To ease the pressure of the ever increasing
     budgetary claustrophobia that chokes me
And the despair of never again being useful or 
     of worth to a woman.
But this canopy above me cannot be only the bulk
     of a baking dish of lasagna.
Above it must be at least a layer of burnt smelling oil
From the leakage of rings old and worn
From transmission seals become porous with age
Porous because their sealing surfaces have become hard and glazed
With use and age.
Do I feel sad and suffer below this canopy?
Indeed no!
I am shielded from the guilts and responsibilities once felt.
With feet standing solidly on my Social Security check
I can seek the knowledge of others
Immerse myself in their successes and failures.
Read  of  Caesar's  problems in the Gallic Wars 
     rather than face my own failures
Attempt to understand why we are here and where things began
Experience the accomplishments and passions of others
Feelings I could never dare myself to be as
     brave and glorious as my antecedents
In battle, love or poverty.
With books I can stand beside El Cid at Granada
     Clad in mail and sword in hand
Emotionally understand the quiet courage of Noah in the "Young Lions."
The despair of Arnold Zweig
Agree with Hobbes and Hegal
Disagree with Locke, Rousseau, Byron, Hemingway, Wallace and Mailer
Marvel at the thoughts and style of Nietsche
And in the end know I know nothing of worth or value.
So much hope and effort for so little
God must be perverse even in non-being
Witness me seeking honor and glory in battle
Only to be ignored by fate
And trampled by a horny camel coursing
Or an Aramagnac fleeing the shafts of the English
     At Creay Poitiers or Agincourt
Death is not a punishment but a part of living.
Death has a certainty in fact that conception cannot approach.
There can be nobility and honor in dying that 
     cannot be approached by the self serving
     passion or greed that produces life.
I am content for I have done my best
Not great or even good at times
But well meant and non feeding on the 
     bodies of those less fortunate than I.
Death is cleaving to nothingness
An ending with no more importance or significance 
     than a grammatical dot.
Only to those behind who must dispose of the garbage is it a problem
In cost and annoyance it is an emotion confused with parental care
We leave a wake behind us which ripples to the
     shore and beats upon and punishes
Those we have loved most and wish to burden least
Unlike the wake of a ship which dissipates and
     disappears with its passing
The wake of our lives affects like an acid that etches the mind
We regret and feel shame at having lived at all.
Shame because it was all to no purpose
No purpose at all other than the 
     gentleness and kindness to others which thru
     some mysterious way eludes our basic greeds
     and needs to touch another.
Is this enough?
This scratching and seeking
I think not and so say farewell to idealism and hope.
Retracted for protection like any other tube worm
I will sift sustenance from the currents flowing past
And eventually die in my tube buried in the muck of the ocean floor
Above me will always be the ever lengthening line 
     which in time encompass all
Ever growing it will engulf the rich with the poor as the earth withers
The rich will last longer but their fate is 
     inevitable and the same.
The sun will swell to engulf and incinerate us all living or at rest
And so given the eventual implosion of the universe
In time we shall have to do it all again
Hopefully nestled below that line so pale and
     unnutritious of hope.

Fried Frank.
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems