into being this idiot, thinking I could try to help
the worlds problems, I posited on what they were ?
hunger?, nuclear war?, Isis?,
when I saw one day it was me.
Caught within capitalism , then I imagined me
in a Communist nation,
or set down in the middle of Iraq,
or India, and saw me as so many of the people in
this world. Where on again, my circle came back around, again
to where I felt I can't make a difference. No one person can.
Then I imagined a world with all the rest of the poets gone.
No one to feel , to try to paint a future more real, or more
loving. And I began to write this. And ...I saw again why
why why my friend whether I write with the skills of Emerson,
or just dabble around, in the end it's all the same.