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

like scraps

to pigs.

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

for myself

telling stories

that I need to tell

while the moon

is waiting

on a frosty night

in the land of no man.

10 thoughts on “In the Land of No Man

  1. As much as I love my cabin in the wilderness(which does have a keyboard at least), I also love the flat in London. It is a mystery to me, even after 50 years of going back and forth, that I can have some of the same feelings in both places. Anyway, nice piece Poet!

    Liked by 1 person

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