As I get older, the basic necessities, are appreciated, even more
like being able to lie in a warm bed, and listen to the street sounds outside
I hear yelling and horns honking
neighbors arguing and political demonstrations
I know, I don’t want to be a part of that.
I start my day reading Thoreau or Bukowski, and sometimes Nietzsche
the librarians know me by name
I’ve discovered Sherwood Anderson’s Short Stories
and I’ve enjoyed some D.H. Lawrence. There’s philosophy in literature
lives, writing about other lives.
In the world of work that I go to
everyone is panicked, and they keep playing these games of importance
they pretend to be leaders, but they don’t have anything on the line
they are actors, some of them, master pretenders
and the ones who care, don’t get very far.
Sometimes, I think their lives are a big act
to signal to others they are good. I don’t care to be known as good or bad
What I show the world, is what they believe
and knowing this, makes me sure, that I must know myself—nothing else matters.
People are caught up, like fish, that swim together in schools, like sheep, that don’t know any better
they are dangerous because they aren’t dangerous
they are easily led
to slaughter or to slaughter
without knowing why
because their why
is given to them
I read their Facebook conversations
their compliments and distain, for each other
Even through well-articulated words
there is a hollow echo.
I love the sound of my own music
I love the thought, that their misunderstandings, don’t matter
that a purpose beyond their contrived lives, is salvation, that only I can know
It can’t be proven, because it is my own self-belief
I write for me—I try to do it perfectly
It’s the one thing I have—a kind of purity
not done for external gain
but to satisfy my internal thirst.
My vision of paradise, is a home library,
a piano in a cabin, in the deep woods
where only the wind knows my name
I’ll keep living
that I need to tell
while the moon
on a frosty night
in the land of no man.