• From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Sat, 9 Jun 2007 19:45:04 -0500


When I die, the gift of who I am will disappear.
A gift that goes unappreciated even as I write this.
Damn you all, I should curse, open your eyes!
But no, it's OK. 
I know what a gift I am to humanity.
And as long as someone knows
that's all that matters.
I am the one who discovered myself,
uncovered the genius that lay buried beneath 
the muck and the fuck and the suck 
of my day to day dealings.
No one else cared to look.
None of you others ever saw into my soul,
never got beyond the lies and the sleaze of me,
never saw the ME of me down on my knees 
praying to a God in whom no one believes,
especially not me,
but who the hell else are you going to pray to?
You might think that this is a terrible poem,
but you'd be wrong,
it's actually a song 
(music pending)
from which we learn that
though our pieties are as cheap as karaoke
they still can carry us Oakie Doakie
through a troubled life.

Mike Geary

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