to bitch too much of everything,
that's weak,
or to accept too much of anything,
that's weak;
we grow weak, we live weak, we die weak;
strong men are myths. they don't exist;
I am the strongest man I know
and I know that I am weak,
where does that leave the rest?
I've finally met certain creative men
whose works had a minor appeal to me,
but when I have listened to them
and looked at them across the room
I knew that I had been fooled by fools,
therefore I was weak.
well, to be weak and to know you are weak,
there's a certain holiness there,
and that's what we need:
holiness, a feeling of holiness,
for this only means a feeling that is
sanctioned and direct
and we have all too few of
these.

we must be our own gods forever;
it's a difficult work,
but it's a work that must begin
or we will hate these walls
simply because we are within
them.
we must be our own gods and our own
angels and our own devils;
my devils are working well,
they are in first-class condition,
and my angels are beginning to fly about
too
it's my gods that need working on,
they are timorous and very pale and uncertain;
maybe they must be this way,
we'll see.

we would like all our things powerful
we would like all our things to be of grace and
sense and in good condition;
too often we fall apart upon a drop of rain;
maybe that's necessary,
we'll see.

or maybe we'll never see --
I have hope.
my hands tell me so.
this small circling
from shoulder to shoulder
from neck to belly,
it wanders and whirls inside.
I would most love to please myself.
tonight my angels all sit about
and we counsel each
other . . .
all we need do is exist and continue --
that is the answer and the answer is that
simple.
my devils and my gods are asleep
this moment.

© Frank Silvanski