“I have no life.”
These words, spoken ruefully
or in jest, matters little.
The meaning is the same:
my life, as it is,
not important enough,
not exciting enough,
not good enough,
not enough.

Thousands of messages
in a lifetime,
telling us this.
It’s good for business
after all.
Buy the car,
make a statement,
people will notice you.
Join our church
you’re separate from God,
a sinner, we can help.
You need this, and that,
see what others are saying,
dont want to be left out.
Can’t get laid without the cologne,
won’t be loved without the diamond ring.

Our souls crucified
on all these lies,
we go insane,
and wonder why.
“You’re not enough,
go buy more stuff.”
I’d love to see
an ad like that.

If you can reclaim yourself
from beneath the rubble
of all the shoulds, and musts,
you will have achieved something.
As for the rest:
**** it.
All of it.

In the silence
beneath the static,
in the grasping hand
that comes up empty,
in the searching mind
that finds no answer,
in the child’s last “Why?”
and the parent’s exasperated
“Because I said so!”
In all of these things,
there is truth
not to be found
in a thousand sacred scriptures.

Sitting outside, mid morning
warm sun, light breeze
on bare skin.  
Sparrow song,
and the hunting hawk’s cry
that silences it.
Blue sky,
white wisp of cloud,
pull of the Earth
weight of the heavens,
and I see in this moment
that this is really it.  
All of it right here.
And it does not seem
like a trap.
Or if it is,
it’s one big enough
to roam endlessly inside.

“I’m a loner.”
You say, but the TV’s on,
people there, living their lives.
Your favorite family, perhaps.
You wish you were part of it,
laughing, crying with them.

“I’m a loner.”
With the radio on,
someone sings to you,
or talks about politics, religion
and you agree, or yell at them.

“I’m a loner.”
On the computer,
social media, or chatting
with an old friend from high school
or a woman you just met.

Go to some deserted place,
a mountaintop,
some lonely, rocky shore.
Stay there for an hour,
a day, or a year.
What, or who
did you think about?
Then return, and say again
who and what you are.
Or better yet,
say nothing.

A love song
still brings goosebumps
like tiny fingers.
Even my skin
wants to reach out.
We meet, and I know this feeling:
the spark, the currents flowing
between us.
Do I trust it now,
as I have before?  
Or am I too tired
for this, anymore?

I remember being young
watching TV romances
bloom and wither
and wondering why
adults complicate things so.
It must be an act,
they must be pretending,
I thought...

And aren’t we?
Maybe it’s that
I’m tired of,
and not merely
another lost love.

Your daydreams
were my first drug
long before the bottle.
Even now, you ******
with fantasies of revenge,
the perfect woman,
world peace.
Is there an “I” without you?
Are you even “mine”?
You seem to believe
you could survive without me,
that you are immortal, omniscient.
Sometimes you are a friend,
more often an enemy,
like an abusive spouse
I cannot leave.
Master and slave,
liar and prophet,
giving with one hand
stealing my life with the other.
The lies you tell
about what others think
are the worst.
You con me into believing
your story is true.
Occasionally I catch you
at what you are doing.
I shine a light on you,
and you disappear.
You’re nowhere and everywhere,
I hear your laughter,
mocking the oracle’s injunction
to “know thyself.”

Both in the baking Sun,
one says “Slow,”
the other “Please Help.”
But one is a hard worker,
well paid, respectable.
The other seen as a loafer,
a scam artist, a loser.
His paychecks tarnished coins,
straight ahead stares,
and the occasional, “Get a job!”

If, as you say, such a life
is easier than working for a living,
why not give it a try?
You have already invented
that man’s story
before you laid eyes on him.
You wear it like armor
against grey truth.

Perhaps one is more valuable
than the other...
We usually have the sense
to slow down in work zones,
but without such a mirror
our true face
remains hidden from us.