I wrote this poem as a way to test extremes in language.
I live in paradise but work in hell.
Not Dante’s kind of hell--all leveled up
or down. The kind which
rubs dreams raw and ricochets hope.
Maybe hell is too strong? Maybe I work
in pain, like a Van Gogh painting chained to
colored sky lines covering a churches spire.
I'm not cutting anything off, just yet.
However, would I or could I sever
The hell-pain sources or whatever it
is. It would be simple, fierce--like for like.
But, what would I sever? Ideas, dreams, thoughts?
Ah, hell-pain seems to come from me. Flowing
by rivers of ideas which grind the
joints of my brain. Its not so bad, really.
It could be worse. I might be content.
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