I have decided "It's All *******!"
Try buying something on line
or using an 800 phone number,
you wait on hold forever and can't
speak to a real person, or maybe
finally you reach a living breathing
human, but quickly discover they
reside in a land far far away, you
can not understand much of what
they are saying, it's all *******!
Try to get waited upon in a store
by someone that actually knows
something about what they are
selling and where the hell it is.
Watching the news on any channel
with all those opinionated, over
explainer talking heads, desiring
to come away smarter or better
informed than when you turned
on the set, but you don't, 'cause
generally speaking it's all *******.
Watching and listening to the endless
line up of politicians, of either party,
as round and round they go where
they stop nobody knows, 'cause it's
all confusing, incredibly redundant,
solves no problems *******!
Try to talk to almost anyone you
meet or even know, good luck
'cause it's mostly half truths and
jaded off the wall opinions and
unbelievable unreliable *******!
He said, she said, they said, way
too much misinformation, in the
end it's all just a huge meaningless
waste of of your time bunch of
fresh, deep, and odoriferous
*******!

Possible solution:
Unplug, hunker down and read
a good book, pet your dog, bounce
a child on your knee, take a walk
in Nature, exercise, paint a picture,
write a poem or story, maybe sing
and or dance like no one is hearing
or watching, because my worn out
demoralized friends none of these
last things just listed, are in any
way odorous bovine defecation.

One day you are born. You don't know anything. You adapt and adjust to the world and learn more and more. Your parents are, more likely than not, ******. They don't exactly know why they gave birth to you, but they know they're supposed to love you now. Your childhood years are formidable and promising. You show talent in sports, music, and mathematics. You go to junior high and get pimples and a ****** drive. You kiss a girl at a Violent Femmes concert at the Del Mar race track when you're thirteen. She's kinda fat and slutty, but oh well. You try really hard to not be included in anything at your high school. You do a lot of drugs. Anything will do, xanax, *******, ****, ******, ecstasy, morphine, ******, beer, it's all the same to you. You get arrested for some dumb ****, your parents help you. You stop doing drugs. You get really into music again. You start a band. You start writing a lot. Your writing is cliche and dry at first. This discourages you. You can't stop for some reason though. After writing hundreds of pages of *******, you write a line that is utterly magnificent. You go to work at a job that barely pays you, you come home. You dream. The money goes round. Your aspirations swivel about in a drunken stupor behind your frontal lobe. You dream. You wake. You eat, ****, and sleep. The money goes round. You eat, you wish you had someone to ****, then you sleep again. You keep writing and playing music though. You get really, really good. But the lash goes on.

Some days we'd lay about the milled plank deck
eyes to the sky
shoulders pinned
deliberating
on the hickory trees
and pillow clouds
and heavenly contrails

the warm caress  
of a mid-summer wind
whispering through the hayfields
coondog at our side
sandhill crane still
feet in the shallows
of the Haldimand pond

a soft trickle coming
from the Pickerel stream
creaks from the woodshed whistle
as the Massey Ferguson
putters her way
up the county line

catharsis in place
(in this ethereal space)
just a garden variety day
...with fire ants
and fowler toads
and golden honey bees