This poem was originally typeset in uppercase.
HERE
I SIT
AND IF I
DON'T
THEN IT
STILL DOESN'T
MATTER
ALL THE LIGHT
THE WORK
THE THOUGHT
OF THE END
THE THOUGHT
OF THE LATTER
HERE I WEEP
WITH DRY
TEARS
AND THE AIR
IN MY HEAD
MAKES IT
HARDER TO
BREATHE
MAKES ME
WOEFUL
INSTEAD
FOR I'M
WASTING
MY TIME
DAWDLING
WADING
IN THOUGHT
WHAT
BEFORE
COULD BE MINE
FOCUSED NOW
TO A DOT
TO A PERIOD
ON A PAGE
TO BE TYPED
TO BE PLACED
TO BE SWIFTLY
DE-BODIED
TO BE
SKINNED AND
DEFACED
STRETCHED
ALL TAUT
ON THE WIREFRAME
OF TIME
THEN
DISSECTED
BY LOVED ONES
BY FRIENDS
BY THE WORLD
WHILE YOU
ARE
THERE'S
THE RUB
YOU'RE NO MORE
AND THE SKY
COULD
BURN
TARNISH
AND THE SUN
COULD SUFFOCATE
IN SPACE
BUT SOME
FORCE
OR SOME
FATE
HAD ME
BOUND TO
THIS THOUGHT
TO MY KNOWLEDGE
MY FEAR
TO MY PLACE
THERE ARE
NO WORDS
AND NO MEANING
AS I SLOWLY
SIT
WAITING
FOR EVENTUAL
SILENT
SLOWING
OF BREATH
FOR ALL
IT'S
WORTH
FOR ALL
FLESH