loathing of others

i wish i could feel
contemptously
about myself.
to hate me for
what i am and what i am not.
it would as easy to discount me.
count me as another one of those
or another one of them. but i cannot
believe that i will be ever thus
some easy prey to tack down with a pin
my silly fucking wings still flapping as i bleed
my life-blood for anothers' amusement.
i want to share my work as a gift, to share
what i do.
because i maybe think
it will help you figure
who the fuck i am
and help me figure
who the fuck i am.
i am liable to feel so
beligerent
and trapped
if i ever felt that i could not share this.
and it will not be the end of my gift
when i share what i have with you.
i can only hope that you cannot
walk away with part of me.
i have learned
that we men may easily pack away the fruit
of others' labor and
take it for ourselves;
callously, with a footnote, caveat, or sign.
we are left no right.
but maybe man puts
such an openness and weakness
to our greatest gifts
for we all expect
to give away our arrogance, our self-styling, and our pride
because of a greater good.
maybe we should learn that there is
no good
and
no great,
but only that we can choose to
draw a line in sand
or
allow a space
in a hall of fame.
but we cannot do both, and we
cannot appease friends.
not without the trading of sentiment
or the encounter of heart. where is
the world with heart, the reality of negotiation without choice?
i hate the options for choice, but i could only back them.
i hate the options for president, but i could only stand by.
would we benefit here from normalizing? i would give a large gift for the right to phrase well,
and yet we already have an understanding.
i know well what this meaning entails;
this lunch among brunches, towns among cities. would anyone
in our world
choose a place like this?
but would you ever even reserve the rights to refuse? tre salute per i ragazzi pazzi, per il futuro e la linea