the works of America’s greatest living poemetrist, alive or otherwise.
it seems kind of pointless
and more than a bit stupid
to blame my brain
for all my problems,
but there ya go.
at least the books i read
do me the grace
of allowing that,
while quite doable
(otherwise: why write the book?)
the science tells me
i see nothing
in this world;
i’m just a brain
in a skull….
realizing this morning
i am unsatisfied
with my life
as if this is a surprise.
of course i am….
i made the mistake
of opening myself up
to my own scrutiny.
i was not disgusted
by seeing myself….
transcendent moments
tear through life
like a bullet
through the brain.
what was…
i think it’s clear
my parents let me down
just as i
let my children down.
my mother went one direction….
even the good things
cause me pain.
i don’t handle life well,
so when things
are not good….
how selfish
do i have to be
to take care
of myself?
i’m not exactly….
“suffering is optional”
which sounds awesome
(yippee!)
until reminded
“pain is unavoidable”….
i failed myself
again today,
but that’s alright
because
“failed myself”…
the early morning song
of the early morning birds
in the cool of the early morning spring
reminds me
that soon these birds….
being alone,
as i am
as we all are,
a being, alone,
a human being….
23,500.
that’s how many days,
more or less,
i have been on
this planet.
today i am using
the correct pen.
funny how that matters
in my head
and nowhere else.
