Four Poems

Ichthus
I swam, me. Up the lake and back for sun
or thumb-fat grubs or maybe the naked hell
of it. A lazy enough life. If one
day some young thug hadn't grabbed me out, I tell
you, I'd be there now. No such luck.
Belly up, lip-stuck, flapping, struck and wrapped
I was, and that was that; off to the fucking
desert with the worst head I ever had.

So now, 'how does the fame feel?' you say. Well
guess. Picture your precious flesh pawed at
and torn not once but time after time in swelling,
stinking, fly-slapped agony - well that's
what it's like, and what I want to say
is this: when the meek take over, who'll pay?

Wittgenstein in Captivity: Italy 1919

'There are, indeed, things that cannot be put into words. They make
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