Better The Gain

By Jack Joseph Smith

Though you may thrust the hour final While a star is born is taken down from the mantel I won't ask to deceive Whether you do believe in God or not And as in opaque and clear In this matter There be two this time on no record determined In the possibilities of the absolute And there I awoke Between the new subtle seconds of sickness Replacing the madness
that was once My Everyman's everyday crack of dawn Viewing the simple structures of paintings and things that are slight But so much carry the absence and oppisite of loss While all I had before was not gone Yet either what was there in my nightmare Here though in consquence Set there is a distance from the old senselessness and sin
Thankful I am After the message of death and what the last of my seasons has wrought To choose this chance To reshape and as with these words To reconstruct my soul From that which had been extinguished and sucked away into shameful silence Where rising the fist of self has strength to finish up and restart the eternity of today Knowing by The speaking eye
Now all the right and all the wrong And what I had done and done not about them Even while Laced with the good of hidden perpetual Showed me as a constant How the search for lust, a courtship of decadence Could not by will be stopped or surgically cut Would not split apart what I will not confess So the sickness had me fight the embrace even though it did not exist
The transgression however with a life of its own had consumed itself So the concept of a flat out living Hell was dead first Thus rebirth was the day before Christ visited my four walls No doubt giving the good Lord something better to do While releasing my heart and soul long enough to muster the truth and beat a bully

Original Scan

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AI Interpretation

GPT

A long recovery poem that weighs spiritual rebirth against sickness, lust, shame, and the temptation to remain trapped inside old forms of self-destruction.

Its movement is cumulative rather than narrative. The poem keeps returning to the question of whether a life can be remade without denying what it has already become.


Claude

The collection's longest poem, a five-page reckoning with sickness, sin, and rebirth in which the speaker wakes 'Between the new subtle / seconds of sickness / Replacing the madness' and chooses 'To reshape / and as with these words / To reconstruct my soul'. It moves from an addressee who 'may thrust the hour final' and may or may not 'believe / in God' toward a hard-won renewal in which 'the fist of self / has strength to finish up / and restart the eternity / of today', closing as 'Christ visited my four walls' and the speaker masters 'the truth / and beat a bully'.

This is a recovery narrative that refuses easy triumph and insists on honest accounting. The speaker names what cannot be willed away - 'the search for lust, / a courtship of decadence / Could not by will be stopped / or surgically cut' - then reframes survival not as cure but as the transgression having 'consumed itself', so that 'the concept / of a flat out living Hell / was dead first' and 'rebirth / was the day before'. The poem's instrument of healing is language itself ('as with these words / To reconstruct my soul'), making the act of writing inseparable from the act of recovery. Its five scan pages enact a vigil rather than an argument: it circles through 'right' and 'wrong', confession and the refusal to confess ('what I will not confess'), and arrives at a modest, embodied victory - releasing heart and soul 'long enough to muster the truth / and beat a bully'. Preserve source spellings 'oppisite', 'consquence', and the phrasing throughout.