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
and broken minds
The breaking is a separation from the whole
unto itself, isolated
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
on the golf course, like Zen
the most beautiful botanical gardens