Hothouse

Mule-jaw straight to the brain, 
I'm bordering on a Samsonian meltdown. 
I got my eyes gouged out on 2nd and Mesquite 
in a broke-down house with wild cats 
watching from the backyard. 

When's the time to kill again? 
When's the time to reap? 
Did I miss it? Did I miss it? 

I'm a two-tailed fox with both ends on fire; 
a wild, wild candle darting off through the field 
and sent screaming straight down to the steps of the Capitol, 
dripping with hot, hot gasoline and spitting up 
dove-blood on sunset red granite.

Meaningless! Meaningless! 
It's all starting to mean less. 
All my wildness compressed and sewn up 
in a pink-frilled match-box with polka dots 
on the strike strip. 
I'm half a lion lying naked in my Mother’s bathtub, 
surrounded by salt pillars on all sides: pinned in place. 
Paralyzed by pointlessness and smothered 
by others' feats of strength. 

I'd bow myself with all my might to get me out of it, 
but I'm not that unkind of a man. 
What is Greatness besides Recklessness that panned out alright?