He spent all his
time
digging holes in his soul,
deep wells where others could
throw in their coins
and wish for better
things and while
it never made him
happy it did make
him awful rich
and he found that
the key to happiness
was shaped an awful lot
like a 40 foot yacht
and a supermodel wife

I hear Buddha
whispering something
in the corner
both profound
and simple
(not that the two are mutually exclusive)
and I'm sitting here
not raging
I don't "rage"
at anything
but I do find this world
so
so....

Unsatisfactory

But I'm not sure why
since things are pretty
okay right now
all things considered
and we must remember
to consider
all things
like
the lobster
the children
the inevitable heat-death of the universe
and rejoice
in our abilities to consider
and to evolve
things like the
poetry we write
by adding creative
spacing
as a flourish for
simple words
that feel profound when
we write them
but when we read them
they are as obvious
as they ever were.

They're all a bit
fuzzy around the
edges,
what with the constant
flux in personalities
and tastes
and it's strange to
watch them try to freeze
the liquid in their souls
so as to have something solid
to hold onto in the rocking
of the seas
and maybe I notice that because
it's a reflection of me
or maybe the secret is
that when I look at people

I don't see them at all.

He wasn't much
to look at
all raging
against mediocrity
trying to make sense
of the hurts in the world
by seeing how much
pain he could tolerate
and how many others
could bear
that pain with him

Look around, kid,
and breathe deep
because everything
that has ever happened
has led to this moment right
now
and I know it's all sorta scary
and that you feel small
in the narrative
but understand
that everything that will
ever happen
will be eventually
tied back to you
someday
so get out there
and start creating
the kind of future
the kind of narrative
where you are so much more

Human beings
being human
always looking
with despair at
the sheen
from which they
stumbled
always swearing to be better
than the previous people
as a means of rebellion
against existence itself

I am
and
I am not
leaving the
impression
of a flickering flame
of a candle
never ignored
but always forgotten
as a the light
in the cave
on a deadman's switch
always threatening
but never burning out
as we piled
on to feel warmth