Fuel

keeps us going

we need it to function

to feel good

My primary source

is the public library

librarians annoyed

that I have so many books on hold

titles they’ve never heard of

titles that make them laugh

titles that have kept me sane,

“The Pleasures of the Damned?” She asked.

“Yes,” I said.

but now the libraries are closed

and I’m reading my own stack of books

going to the usual places

for an unrenewable resource

the same stories don’t light the fire

the same way

they used to

and the same songs

fade into the background

like elevator music

My aloneness has comforted me

during sleepwalking days

where the crowds are paid their due

individuals

stripped of their identity

My fuel is golf, poetry, and Tai food

it’s all the things that make me smile

when I shouldn’t

when the day is so bad

to smile is an offense

for those working with me

enduring the same things

they want to kick me out,

obliterate my joy

and perhaps, that is their motive

to make my life hell

but they don’t realize

my pain is fuel

a cruel creativity

a rebellious fire

not accepting said limitations

of their said story

searching for my own

without a written ending

looking for the next source

during a fuel shortage

I don’t run on the same things as the rest

I just run

Chasing things

and maybe that’s all we can do

when the dreams are gone

stomped on

by realists

runners, looking for what we need

a man or woman in a quiet room

seeking daily pleasure

while the crowds multiply

outside

we catch a song

on the radio

never heard before

and we have the fuel to do something

we couldn’t do, a moment ago

as the noise grows outside

their pain destroys

their torturous words speak to me

in unintended ways

I’m an alchemist of bad intent

learning my craft

over a decade

it’s not the avoidance of hate

backstabbing, bullying, one-up-manship

No, I’ve already been crushed, transmuted

My soul has poured out its guts

for fuel.