if it really doesn't matter, why aren't you masturbating with people--like-minded in both grammar and entertainments--that might enjoy the promise of touch that the circle jerk implies?

On top 

of everything

else, we were

not good people

while still favored

sons. And there were

some of us (most)

who made no miracle

and confessed no art

bud did instead

stand or sit or crawl

on humbled knees

through suffocating days

that posed as pedagogy,

as purpose or as

(more tellingly)

the impatience for

the end--too readily--

of the world. We were

in our fixations

again nostalgic

persuaded by   

our contradictions

to permit, to see

to scour rust 

from our names and 

so seeming be

too obviously

like these snails trolling

the flat earth's heaven

and infinite 

hell:  the glazed

indifference at the surface

of a mirror.  This is all

there is, 

at bottom.