It's there.
Some small
inconveinent
hindrance of curiosity
You see,
at night I like to lay
flat on my back
on the cement
and stare up at the night sky.
Make fun all you want
but this nonpareil view
of the stars
holds so much possibility,
so many endless and unexplainable
things
to ignore it is an insult to mankind
and your gift of consciousness!
So there I lay
trying to do my humanity
a favor
but my head
as oblong and mishapen as it were
with that flat spot
always rolls to the side
forcing a limited view
of the city!
Pfft! There is nothing to gain
from the working of other people!
I've tried building many
prosthetics for this problem,
Once,
I molded putty to my head
to make up for this tragic flaw
but it didn't work
and it looked terribly absurd.
So I suppose
as much as I imagine the universe
to be completely perfect,
the fact that earth is a part of it
makes it flawed
(which yes, I realize that includes myself)
Furthermore
as much as I like
to think of myself as perfect,
that flat spot will always be
the earth
of my head.

Nothing seems
to be
more insulting
than to be shushed
as a deaf child
by your parents
because you are disturbing
those around you
that have the gift of
hearing.

You drive in
circles and circles and circles
in a stuffy car
constantly searching
for the best possible space.
Stopped and waiting
for person after person
who clearly find it acceptable
to walk in
the
middle
of
the
street
Gritted teeth
Fingers gripped, indenting the
cushioning of your steering wheel
You imagine your
parking angels laughing
at your ridiculous prayers
playing harps to
accompany your misery.
You felt as if you haven't
taken a breath in
quite some time
as your sweat-drenched collar
seems to be tightening.
Frustration is digging ulcers
as if you're ready to just
crash your car right
into the front of the store
and,

Finally

you just settle
for the space in the way back.
Nothing to exactly brag about
at your next dinner party.
Settling is a part of life you suppose.
The door slams and you lock it.
A few paces in
and
well,
you find yourself
surprisingly
enjoying
the long walk,
this scenic route.
You remember how nice it is
to actually be outdoors
and to see some clouds
and birds and empty
noiseless air.
You laugh a little to yourself
You slow your steps and breathe.
A car honks at you for standing
in the middle of the street.

I see your kids
running around the table
screaming
and crying
existing on some
hyperactive wavelength that
exhausted adults have
waived from their capacity.
You sat there
making an art out of tuning
them out.
Quite impressive really.
Not so much could be said
for everyone else in the room though;
the rolled eyes
or deep, hollow groans
cursing your parenting skills.
The hell with them anyway.
You sit and enjoy your tortellini
and your fifth glass of wine
no frown or smile just
the blankest face
I've ever seen in my life.
Blank as,
not so much a canvas,
for a canvas was built for
the intention of being
transformed by color.
But you,
your face is the white slate
face of an unclimbable
mountain. It is
the forgotten
empty
dusty
journal of your parents,
stuffed in an attic.
Your face doesn't ask
for pity
or ridicule,
it only asks to uphold
it's sanity amidst
all the struggles
this life has to offer.

You'll get through though,
and so will they,
Sometimes it is at
the very bottom
where people discover
their greatest strengths.

You've sworn
to live for poetry
but it is
poetry that
kills you

The homeless man begged
for change, but not the kind you
keep in your pocket

Your pithy one-liners
move nothing but mouths. But
they make good wall art