The Floyd, *******,
brought my soul to surface
I finally felt home again
sit and rest from a rat race.
I've been mad for years
swim against the tide
ocean drinks my tears
I find your coves to hide.

We are lottery winners,
alive here and now with
choices and voices inside
fences of our own making.
We live in paragraphs and
chapters until the ending.

The Irishman's Grave

He had to flee his Ireland.
The God ****** British
stole his life and land.
He floated to America.
John Donovan from Cork
was my great grandpa.
Stubborn as a mule and
strong as an ox he lived.
There's a deep dark hole
we Irishmen bury anger.
God help you if you ever
find yourself in our hell!

And you may ask yourself, "How did I get here?"
And you may ask yourself, "Where is that shiny automobile?"

And you may tell yourself, "This is not my beautiful house"
And you may tell yourself, "This is not my beautiful face"

And when the task before you
is thousands of files,
staple - on staple - on staple
You bite that bullet,
Staple Lord.

With every fiber of your being,
you hunt them down
and wrangle them out
like you were born for the thing;
because you are alive and
it's the task before you.

you tear dem ******* out like
it's your Sistine Chapel.

do all things this way
nothing is wasted.

the light of your attention
reflecting back on you.