some say that losing control of your life
is like having water rise around your feet.

bit by bit the flood builds
and all the stresses add to its grip
soon it’s at your ankles,
at your waist, at your neck,
then your chin, and nose,
and eyes, and then your
swimming in it, swimming
to avoid drowning but it’s
no use:

the water is pushing you up to the ceiling

and all you have left to do is say your prayers
and think your final thoughts

but that’s not what I think

all that stress,
all those expectations,
all those terrible ideas
that sneak into your head
and then can’t be forced
out

they’re not water

no,
to me
all that
transforms the air,
into something that
drowns you just as fast
if not faster than the
dreaded
water

what I mean to say is:
this is better

that rising water
that inevitability that comes with
having to face your demise in the
face

that cold water is unnecessary
because death is cold enough
already

kings can float on the water
longer than a beggar
their treasures making a life raft
(that should eventually fail)

but when air turns to water
even kings can only
drown

room filling with mist
beads of sweat fresh
on my skin
the adrenaline pumps into my veins
as my eyes go wild and then
shut

stillness goes through my mind
as I breath in the hot water air
softly filling up the room

no need for oxygen
no need for breath
no need for troubles
no need for care

the bathroom floor is slippery now
the shower beats angrily against the tub

steam invades my every poor
at last I am at peace

night night
fragile world

I say goodnight
without saying
goodbye
and
I sadden myself

the end is coming
we all know this

the end is something
that can be prepared for
but the best finish
comes out of the corner
of your eye
or from way out of left
field
or even like a snake
sitting right in front of
your face

the end is nigh
as we all know

the end is coming
the end is here
this end is one of many
this end is a simple thing

so close your eyes
or don’t
I hope it comes
when I’m seeing something
nice
but it can come however you
want

you can choose your finish
or you let fate make up its
mind

I see the light suddenly
breath caught, I wait expectedly
the sound comes and
shakes the world for
eternity

I don’t know how
to start this
poem

lately
so much has been going on
or
so much hasn’t been going
on
that I can’t seem to find
the time to write

but that’s a lie
I have the time
I just don’t have the
will

I’m afraid of reaching the
highest height I can achieve
I fear I wrote the greatest
thing I’ll ever write
months ago
and
it’ll never be the same
I can never be
greater

but that’s a lie
I have the talent
I just don’t have the
will

I look around
as if someone is
watching me do
this

writing out all my
fears
spelling out all my
dreams
understanding what’s really going
on

I take off my watch
there’s no need for time
here

just work
and through that
I will get past this

I will emerge from
the mist
to see a new mountain for me to climb
and the path that I will use to conquer
it

fighting for survival
the small ant on the
hot pavement

each tiny leg slightly
shorter every time he
picks it back up

he’s going home to
a house where he has
no value and the sun
seems more welcoming
than his million siblings
each competing to please
their mother better

here the fateful symmetry

fighting for survival
the man walking on
hot pavement gives
up and lets himself
cook as a merciful
release

time of ignorance
you are the great
fearful age quickly
dawning upon us

those without thought
lead into battle by the
hazy-eyed extremist
conquer the innocent
and protect the most
guilty

this is a poem about
my anger with the
world

have your opinions,
your views, your ideas,
whatever but make
sure they’re thoughts

we cannot submit
to the men who
expect us to be
animals

we are what we dream we are
and nothing more

I am terrified
of this new age

where the deaf are king
and the blind are people

time of ignorance
what hope can I
have as you hurtle
towards me like
a meteor in the
night sky

simple existence
quiet darkness is here now
all alone for once

maybe she remembers

maybe she remembers
all those loving words
we whispered in each
others ears

maybe she remembers
all those nights that we
stayed up

all those nights that
turned to morning
before we ended
them

I remember
I remember them all
I remember them and
tears come to my eyes

not just for losing them,
those wonderful nights
that turned to morning,
but for the fact that I
lost them, caught up in
blind hormonal rage

my words were nothing
against the anger you
rightfully threw against
my fragile mind

and I was crushed
my mind fell into pieces
as I was reminded not to
get ****** in

I cried
I’d never cried like I did that day

because I did
I got ****** in
like I knew I
shouldn’t have

but I don’t regret it

she probably remembers;
I told her I could let her
go then,

and I did
but it was hard
too hard
but I did it

I’m better for it

maybe she remembers me
I hope so

maybe she remembers
what we did
and
what we didn’t do

we’ll never be the same.
neither of us,
I remember why
and maybe she remembers
too

an angry,
angry refrain

you failed again
again
again

but that’s not the problem
you are

you,
are.

doing something once
is simple and
real

but
doing it over
and over and over
is when there’s something

wrong

the x factor
in the equation
and you refuse
to change it

an angry,
angry refrain

you look at yourself
and weep

you failed again
again

we sit here
all our troubles laid out
in front of us

we can’t think of anything to say
but we talk anyways
trying to convince everyone
it’s not as bad as it seems
and failing to impress even the children
and especially yourself

we sit here
all our troubles laid out
in front of us

the best of us stand
get up and take the whole pile
underneath one arm
and walk out the door

but most of us sit
watching as our pile of troubles
grows greater and greater
and more and more people
walk out the door

I look at people
just feet away
and yet they seem
as if behind a TV
screen

they laugh, they
cry, they walk
all without notice
of my wide-eyed
stare

I know I exist
but in their
actions you
could not
guess it

I’ve asked before,
what is my detachment
from the world all around
me?

sometimes I answer:
it’s all their fault

but every once in a while,
I am reminded I am wrong

when sitting there,
with my wide-eyed stare,
somebody says to me,
“hello!”

and sometimes I reply,

sometimes.

then I ask myself again;
why?

and I answer:
it’s all my
fault

I feel the poem
hiding
behind the shadow of my pen
or perhaps in the tiny crevices
of the skin on my fingers
but
I know he’s
here

somewhere

lately he’s been gone;
out drinking or perhaps
on a trip to vegas

his return is less like a
bursting through the
door
and more like
a sneaking
through the back-door as
he thinks I sleep soundly
in my bed

my eyes are open wide
as he empties his pockets
and quietly takes a ****

it must be three a.m. at least
and I haven’t slept a wink

I didn’t notice at first
but when I realized I shot
up in bed and looked
around for him to no
avail

he was gone
so I went back to bed

but,
as you know,
I could not
sleep

as he throws his shirt off and
climbs into his own bed across
the room my eyes surely glint
in the moonlight
but I doubt he
sees

he falls asleep within five
minutes

I wait there
my eyes glowing in the moonlight
then get up
hovering over his sleeping form

the knife appears from my right hand
and it too glints with my intention

I close my eyes as the strike is made
and the innocent blood splashes onto
my hands

I take it and smear my face

I open up my eyes

there is no blood
there is no body
there is no knife

there is just me
and this poem

exposed now from its hiding
place where I couldn’t see

I close my eyes again

his eyes are open now
my pen is sitting in my hand
I open my eyes as they
glint in the moonlight
just as mine did in my
double-think creation

this is the nature of my
art

I see the apparitions
of a million mourning
people
standing here
amongst hundred year old graves
and hundred year old trees

they walk slowly
tears dropping
without ever hitting
the ground

one by one
flowers of every color
are put on grave
after grave
till this bleak
and dusty
graveyard
turns into a beautiful
arrangement of ornamental
and inorganic reminders

as each grave adds to the garden
of paper flowers each ghostly figure
of some mourner past disappears as
in a puff of smoke until all of them
have evaporated into the air and I am
left alone in a dusty graveyard adorned
only with fake blooms and overgrown
weeds

the sun beats down hot on my head
and I sweat as the sun comes level
with my eyes

a little girl toddles up to me
pointing at the petals adorning
a near-by grave

she asks
“are those paper flowers?”

I say yes
and comment
on the beautiful
day

“yes”
she says
“it’s a good day for paper flowers”

and I sat there
silent
watching the sun
set
on a beautiful
place such as
this

I see myself
for the first time
looking into the mirror
that adorns the space
above my bathroom
counter-top
and up to
the ceiling

I look beautiful
yet
tragic

there in my boxers,
holding a bottle of
something in my
hand, and having
this look in my eyes
as if to say, “this
is all there is to
me”

although my stance,
and my face, and my
eyes, and fingers, and
toes all scream that I am
dying in my mind and
in my heart; my mouth
breaks apart and smiles
in a way that only the
purest of children know

what does that smile mean?

is it that small glimmer of
hope I have left, the tiny
light at the end of tunnel?

or is it my ignorance, my
stubborn will, my hard-
headed optimism that will
be bested in the end?

or is it just a smile, true and
pure, from looking at me in this
full-length mirror?

I am the colliding border of
the two storm fronts known
as logic and passion and to
make matters worse a twister
of sudden boredom has shot
up to make things all the more
difficult

I see myself in this mirror
stripped down to my under-
pants and yet I still can’t
see anything that’s really
inside

each day I must step up
to this mirror and look
into it

each day you will have
to step up too

in my mirror,
I see something beautiful
yet tragic,
in a way very few will ever
understand

in your mirror,
I do not know what you
see
but I hope you see some-
thing
and my hope is that you
can be happy with what
it is

They say
don’t bet on that
it’ll never happen
yeah, unfortunately

They tally the odds in their head then say
“It’s a long-shot”

They said it about a horse
They’ve said it about the president
They say it about me

I just put my ear plugs in
and aim my rifle
but before I shoot I say

“Is it still a long shot?”

and they’ll scream

“Yup!”

“Too bad”
I say
and I take my shot

(I don’t know if I hit my target)

“suppose I have a better chance than humanity
cropping up in all this chaos”

I look into the past
seeing the wars and battles
of my fore-fathers
and my fore-mothers
and think

with every step
into the future we take
the less we want to
take a step back into
the past

then I look into the future
seeing the wars and battles
of my children
and my children’s children
and think

with every step
away from the past we take
the less we would want to
take a step into the future

then I look at this moment
sitting here, frozen in time,
half-finished poem fresh
on the screen and think

today is no different from tomorrow
and tomorrow is no different from
yesterday

frozen in time
I pray for the future
pray that the mistakes
of the past provide
no hindrance and
that the mistakes
in the future do
not hurt those
still to come
along

let it roll
let it move
let it grow
let it show

show you how to
roll
move
and
grow

let every little tingling idea
cropping up like weeds in
the back of your mind grow
and fester into something
great though not necessarily
good

let it grow
let it find its voice
let it find its way to show
the world what it
knows

we all have the seeds
but only a few possess
the will to plant them
and even fewer to let
it grow as it turns into
the monster it must be
before it can become
beautiful

let it roll
let it move
let it grow
let it show the world
let it show the world
let it show the world
what you let it do

a fire truck blasts its bullhorn on the highway
an ambulance siren follows right behind him
I think about the dragster I heard five minutes ago

I take a drink
look out the window
and think it’s such a beautiful day

here I am

the man
Caleb Pendleton

the hated leviathan
the consumer without anything
to consume
the homeless wander who goes
home to a bed every night
here I am
in the flesh
ready to take on whatever
you choose I’ve done this
time

here I am
here I am
here
I
am

there may be blades in my smile
but you aren’t reaching up for a kiss
now are you?

here I am
in all I am

the liar
the loser
the criminal

the smart ***
the genius
the angry-
eyed
mad
scientist

here I am
and there you are

take your best
shot

that single drop of rain
that hits you square in the forehead
as you look up at the grey sky

then you wonder:
“Do I run,
or is it
too late?”

then your answered
as the single drop
turns to million and
all you can do is move
along, your soaking
clothes squeaking as
you walk

Play it Teddy!
hammer those keys
swing that clarinet to and fro
and do it all without a voice to be heard
but applause to be enjoyed

Play it Teddy!
play that song!
the one on the radio now,
the one I can’t describe
I rock my head back and forth
I tell Teddy to play it some more
and imagine I’m back in New Orleans
Teddy playing to wondrous clapping
and the waves quickly rising up to the bell of his
clarinet

the poem is the line which starts it
that and the title
and the stanzas
and the word choice
and the meaning
and the message
and the theme maybe too

what is a poem?
is it best short or long?
how bout in rhythm or even in
rhyme?

what makes a poem?
is it the poet or the words?
or is it something we do
not know? That’s past us,
at least,
for now?
----
100 reads! Thanks guys! 5/9/10

I have a fleeting thought,
just now,
sitting on the bumper of somebody’s car,
empty coke can beside me.

What if I just walked away?

Walked in any direction,
and kept
going?

just go

no thoughts.
no consequences.

just me,
my backpack,
and,
the thirty-five dollars
in my pocket.

It comes then
goes.

just as my
legs begin
to move,
it flees away
again

I sit on the ground now
I flinch as a car passes

looking at all the ways I could go
but still remaining still.

I grimace.

I sigh
I’m passing her again
that black mistress
that sits in the corner gathering dust
I miss her,
I guess,
but I remember
why I left
and why
she now gathers dust

I sigh
running my fingers over her obsidian surface
old girl, I remember
the music,
the fun,
the tears,
the fret,
oh I remember

I remember
and
I sigh

it’s been what?
2-3 years now?
it was hard
but it was the piano I broke up with
it was playing her,
learning to play her,
learning all her special places,
learning how to make her sing
like she’ll only let a few make
her

I lift the key guard
play a single note
I retract the hand,
the key is hot iron,
then I hit it again,
not so hot this time,
then I play, play a
song that I remember,
the only song I
remember

I did not do it long
just enough to remind
me how bad I was

but putting the key guard down
and leaving the old girl to her
dust I realized something:

I had returned to the piano,
and once again I had made
her sing in that wonderful
way

I’ve been called a dog

what does that mean?

does mean I’m loyal?
loving?
unswerving?
always forgiving?

or do you mean to say I’m dumb?
loyal to your enemies?
unswerving in my path to bring you down?
never forgiving for the things you do?

I suppose I am a dog then
in both senses
but I’m not dumb
that’s how I know
I’m a dog

for the
idiot
is the
one
who’s
confused

the
one
you
want
me
to
be

it wasn’t the first time
but it does catch me off guard occasionally
looking at others
at what they do
then looking at
what I do

poetry

sure,
there were some good people,
I certainly can admit to that
but looking at all my notes
and then looking at all their
faces

I’m noticing a pattern
that gets stronger and
stronger every time I
check

I’m going to a play tonight
don’t know the name
but I know who made it
(Me,
in a way)

I’m going to a play tonight
one I made possible,
I proved it could be done
but this is a fire created not by me
but by the torch I handed off with a smile

By looking back,
there is a romanticism
in believing that the
way you came is the
only way you could
have come

you see the roads you didn’t take,
the forks you took,
the side alleys avoided or
accepted
and yet

you look at your feet
the dirtied shoes stand proudly
against the dusty ground
and the hole in the toe,
where you can see
the hole in your sock,
reminds you of something
you can’t remember

but you smile anyways

and yet

you look at the road you’ve travelled
the obvious *** holes,
the bridges burned in
your wake, the mountains
climbed over where
passes existed as well

the hole in your shoe
seems less friendly as
you remember how you
got it

you should frown
but smile anyways


that shoe is your shoe
that shoe is you
that shoe is all
those paths you took
and could’ve taken

those shoes,

in their simple
existence,

are proof that
you have
succeeded

You can’t make it
Can’t duplicate it
Can’t splice it
Can’t fight it
Old poetry on
Old paper
Just
Is
And
All those new poems you
Write
Will never be as good
Until time, like it does to all
Things
Turns it old and transforms it
Into different meanings and
Words

Men go on saying
and doing
everything
not to die

But to the
ghosts and
zombies and
etc.
what really
happens?

Do you try to avoid it?
or
Embrace it?

What’s the other side?
of
The other side?

Does the cycle go round to
turn back into life?

Tell me ghosts
Visit me in the black night
Whisper to me in my dreams
I want to know
Don’t I?

People with plastic smiles
wave to me over their
white picket fences

I avoid their gaze
but they just smile as I drive
past

Back and froth
twice a day
every day
at minimum

I fear their cheerful greetings
there invitations to barbecues and
parties where I'll only be singled
out

I do not need the hive mind,
the men who we envision
in dark suits with red
eyes but who are really
just you and us down deep
inside

I drive by the
face of evil every
day

And as it chuckles
and laughs as I drive
by in my old beat-up
Volvo I avoid looking into
the empty-pits where
a soul is supposed to
be

the murderer is a man who
makes a living doing what
everyone jokes about but
who deep down in their so
simple minds refuse to do
the deed for fear of some
shadow conjured up as a
means to control them in
their weakest moments

the murderer lives in our
brain but lives in the hands
of very few

so few of you are killers
so few of you are people
who’ve escaped the fear

the killers are the people
who refuse to die without
a fight/the killers are the
people who refuse to keep
living without having things
their way

the murderers are killers
but the killers are creators
creators of terror, fear, and
anger, but also anguish, and
tears in volume of the ocean

the murderers
the musketeers
the marauders
the generals
the corporals
the soldiers
the butchers
the land developers
the tree planters
the kid sitting there
eating an apple

they’re all killers
all the killers are
all of them and
all of them are
all of us

The day is young at 3 PM
The sun is high
The air is warm
And the hum of the engine driving down the highway is music amongst
The whipping wind of the open window

Strange birds sit lazily on the edge of ocean ponds
Old men in polo shirts hit tiny spheres down beautiful gardens

So many people with money but no minds

I need eyes without pupils
The function without the humanity

looking at the people, with all their
faces, legs, arms, shirts, *******, hairs
and eyes. I see a million different
flavors of the same thing but in
practice you cannot prove my theory

down to the tiniest strand of DNA, or
smallest molecule of amino acids, or
even the minuscule atoms of carbon
or oxygen, I am absolutely
right

but in the large term, in
the space where you are
greater than the sum of
your parts, I find that we
are so much more than
atoms or molecules or
DNA

we are destined to live every day for our lives
but we have since passed that stage (at least for
now) and ascended to the plateau of higher
thought and a meaning to life other than survival

what can I do to deny woman?
what can I do to deny man?
they are so compelling,
even in their idiocy and
(my more Darwinist side says)
should be given no pity

but I feel the fire of human interaction deep inside me
to hate, to love, to loath, to want, to need, to feel, to
be there for your friends, your enemies, or your people

I feel the fire deep in my heart, deep in my mind, deep in my
groin

It’s there and burning on the fuel of my darkest and
inner-most thoughts. It’s there and (slowly) burning
away my soul

I laugh behind my grim expression

I gaze back at a boy

his legs weak,
speech stuttered,
eyes diverted from
the woman standing
on top of him

her nails draw his blood,
her feet crush his bones,
and all the boy does is
smile his nervous smile,
for he is in complete
bliss

I shake my head

I laugh behind my grim expression

this is the only
way to deal
with tragedy:

keep it light or
keep it without
meaning

the trick is keeping it within your mind,
far away from your heart

I look back at the boy

I shake my head

I laugh behind my grim expression

I look at myself
lost in Stockholm
Syndrome;

You’d call it
love

I think it’d be real easy to **** someone
take the gun,
take the knife;
pull the trigger,
push it in tight

I think that’s all there is too it
but I notice one thing that makes no sense
if it’s really that easy to **** somebody,
why isn’t everyone dead?

this is the last man to leave the funeral
this is the doctor turning off the machines
this is the single ant squashed under a rock
this is the car abandoned in the desert

this is the hunched-over tears that fall
on the ground turning into tiny dark
specks

or

the sorrowful eyes which tear up but
who refuse to let their hearts do what
they request

I am this,
you are this,
we are this,
they are this

everyone is this
at some point or
another

this is the sanity in sorrow
the golden lining that proves
there will be tomorrow

this is the worst moment
this is the best moment
this is the time when you
will know why you are
what you are and then
why you are going to
become something else

this is the fire
this is the freeze
this is the storm
this is you and me

you are my sunshine
my only
sunshine
you make me
happy
when skies are
gray

you’ll never know,
dear
how much I love
you

please

don’t take your
love away

he wasn’t a solider
he wasn’t dying of cancer
he didn’t have any great struggle
he didn’t live without even the
most basic necessities of life

he didn’t  do anything honorable
he didn’t make strides in any field
he wasn’t a hero or a god
he was an average guy,
like you or me

his greatest act wasn’t a battle
his greatest success wasn’t in war
his victory wasn’t against other men
his choice wasn’t even conscious

his whole existence was mired in laziness,
his entire world borne of excess and fat,
his brave act, which makes him so great,
was meant to fight against this destructive
norm

he was a man, no,
a boy,
who looked at his brothers,
his friends, his fathers, and
saw pigs, gluttonous animals
meant to live in the mud

he looked to his world and
saw what it had come to:
the mud in a pig pen

and he thought,
not for a long
time, just enough,
and decided that
something was
not right

so from that day forth
he looked to his peers
look at what they did
and told himself:

I will not be like
them anymore

I stand atop the mountain,
there atop all my challenges
and tribulations!
I have come past the obstacles!
climbed the steeps hills!
scaled the great heights!
and now I stand and
look down at the world
and yell “I did it!”

I stand atop the mountain,
there atop all my challenges
and tribulations!
I have risen above myself!
against my deep will!
without my addictions
and distractions!
and I made it!
I made it
to the
top!

I stand atop the mountain,
there atop all my challenges
and tribulations
I stand atop the mountain
of victory
looking up
at the worlds
of success

all the time in the world
all the care needed to do
anything

guess I can start tomorrow

there’s something
overtly ****** about
her

something about those legs
or those *******
or those eyes

but it doesn’t arouse,
no,
it mystifies
it… tantalizes
it makes you want
more and nothing
less

when she struts
into the room your
thoughts don’t turn
to ******* and
then sleeping
and then *******
again

instead you look at her
and want to hold her,
to lay with her without
ever taking any clothes
off,
to kiss her,
but in a sweet way,
not with hunger or
lust

something about her
screams the call of a
breath-taking woman

but you don’t want
that
you want something
else, which you cannot
fully define

there’s something
odd about her

something not quite right,
and yet
perfectly fine…

to you,
for now,
at least.

some things
aren’t meant to be known
by man

but when a man
picks one of those
up,
or rather,
when they are dropped upon him,
usually in the most arbitrary of
moments,
he must then carry it
with him
for the rest of his
life

he will bear this weight,
and for some,
it will be too much,
breaking their backs
as well as their wills,
and leaving them to writhe on the floor
until death comes

but for others,
those like me,
we bear the weight
without strain,
looking only downward
at the road ahead

and our backs will not break
despite their cries for that fate,
and our wills will not crumble
despite the failure of the inner
columns to remain upright
and sturdy

those men,
with the weight
of a secret world
on their shoulders,
will march through their lives
looking no different than the man
not burdened with the
truth

in the night
I see
her

touching me
hugging me
kissing me

and then she asks
“do you love
me?”

and in the night
I have the confidence
to say yes
as I reach down
with a smile
for another
kiss

but then as our lips touch
the dream breaks
and I am left dazed
in the dark
of my
bed room

I look over at the pillow
I clutch between my arms
and sigh

I close my eyes again
hoping for the dream
to return

in the end,
the person who knows
you best
is you

if that is not true
then something’s wrong

trying to be someone else?

you can’t do it
they know themselves best
and you’ll never be able to
match that

trying to be something different?

you can’t do it
because you’ll always feel
wrong, always want things
the way they were

trying to be yourself?

you can do it
you just can’t try

no one can
force you

no one can
make you
change

no one really
understands
but that
doesn’t mean
they won’t
try

in this world we die and live
just like we are born
(alone)

and all this can tell you why
the person who knows you
best
is
you,

only
you

noise!
noise!
noise!

so much NOISE!

the music plays, my
hands clap too loudly
for the room, even the
sun seems to have
this blanketing static
creeping into my
brain

even as I make it all go away
my mind screams inside of my skull

my hands move fast
just trying to get the noise out
but the tapping of the keys
is just more noise
making me
even more
insane!

noise!
noise!
noise!

so much NOISE!

where is the quiet when you need it?
where is  depression when your veins
pump with adrenaline?
where is the fairness?
where is the justice?

there’s only one question I can answer,
and that’s where the ****** noise is from!

swirling in the sky
like a dancer of
god, the clouds
are bringing a
new weather for
us to endure

the wind is changing
the plants are opening
the birds are hid amongst
the trees

the day turns dark
the people stand ajar
the elation is lost to
grey

where do the yellows
and blues and reds
and oranges go when
the clouds move in
and threaten their
haughty weapon?

where does this begin?
where does this end?

where does it say the
clouds may change
their shape and become
villains without any
consequence?

but as I look up
at the sky I see
the world is not
changing

the clouds are
swirling still
like a dancer
of god and are
bound, as is
their purpose,
to rain upon
me

the cross road
reads fear
my street
reads fate
and the paths I’ve been on
before read
depression, laziness, and elation

tall buildings
obscure my view
of that around
me but not
the sky
and as I look up
and down fear
street I can’t
see what’s
coming or
gone

standing on the corner of
fate and fear
I take one step onto
the pavement

I hear a horn honk
echoing out against all the
buildings
but I can’t see
anyone

I run down fate street
crossing fear

in face of the unfaceable
the wise man would turn
away

take what he can, in what
he can, and leave the fight
for another day

the wise man isn’t losing,
nor giving up, or giving in

the wise man is winning
for with his life he escapes

the naïve boy would ask

wise man what should I
do?

this man/this girl/this job/
this poem/this something
or another is causing me
trouble

the wise man would answer

can you fix it yourself, or
through the power of others?

the naïve would shake his head
no

but what can I do? he would punctuate

the wise man would smile,
putting hand on shoulder
in chide

and whisper in the naïve boy’s ear
why I’d leave it,
what good is a
fight?