Through the broken trees, I saw a broken moon

like a cookie eaten by an obese child. I was working on my golf swing

and I had forgotten my many injuries from the past.

My wrist was on fire, like it was broken—and I thought about my broken dreams.

We put pressure on things, until they break—like discarded toys.

I saw a man with broken teeth today, and he told me that he was broken

and he was taking care of a broken child.

The fireworks were going… BOOM. POP. POP.

I thought, somebody is getting murdered—just like how prisoners wait for no moon, to escape.

I look at the smooshed raccoon on the road, and the cat that walks around with a broken back.

There’s the dog that wanders across the street, like he owns the place

while moms in their SUVs go 15 miles per hour over the speed limit.

It won’t be hard work, that keeps you whole. People are working themselves to death, with no satisfaction.

It won’t be a hobby, that saves you—doing something to keep busy, is only a distraction.

The broken beautiful things in this life are endless—like dragonflies

broken hearts

and broken minds

The breaking is a separation from the whole

an island

unto itself, isolated

and alone.

If you’ve been broken enough, your many pieces get scattered

until part of you, finds the place you belong.

I’m listening to the children right now

in the gladiatorial arena. It’s a daycare, for working single moms.

There’s a large spherical place with wooden chips

and a fat woman

who walks the yard, and pretends to love those kids

for 25 dollars an hour.

The separating happens at age 5

and continues breaking

for a lifetime

until we find moments that make us whole

a sunrise

on the golf course, like Zen

the most beautiful botanical gardens

don’t compare

to heaven.

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