For Paul Wellstone

I probably should’ve selected a higher point
There isn’t a door in the world without my finger
caught in it just enough to raise regret
as an issue That and momentum over the cliff
Whatsit? Doom? Trash Masher? It forces yr hand
to take up rock science The lucky #1 rock pick

set in motion towards one’s own head Pick
the size and shape Which eye the point
hits I approach my demise with missionary zeal Hand
on the keys to America’s trust to finger
the hell out of The wrong face carved on the wrong cliff
Elect yet another strong stiff and regret

nothing more than stasis One man’s regret
is another’s successful campaign A pick
me! among the the rocks of the martian landscape The cliff
between these lofty troughs & the point
of no return ie total branding of organs A left hand
from Pfizer Fist full of profit behind each subsidiary finger

So yr being a prick What do you want? The finger?
Change yr Britta Kidney every month or you’ll regret
even the water you drink No hand
outs for you pal with yr marvelous pick
of the litter days & nights A return to the point
becomes inconceivable though as the cliff

dwellers develop swooping abilities & the cliff
itself extends its reach Puts a finger
on the thing that gives you a pulse The point
that propels you beyond all regret
A motive you insist is beyond choice The pick
off one by one plan until the hand

into which we’ve all been played the hand
is all that’s left The machine on the cliff
of its own making Programmed to pick
a straw every straw A finger
in every pie There’s nothing to regret
because there¹s nothing left at all Nothing to point

at nothing to point out No cliff to triumph over
nor perp to finger No time left to regret
No hand to receive nor give No two ideas from which to pick