they will interpret your silence for cowardice

but I don’t care,

and that’s why I’m courageous.

Even a quiet man must prove himself like a volcano, from time to time

a century here

a millennia there

They will say, “You write poetry… how wonderful to have a way to express how you feel.”

But they don’t appreciate

the violent power of fire, coming out of the earth.

They will sweep your poetry under the rug, like dirt

They will smile,

and greet the pretty girls with style.

the flowers lean in

the flowers lean out

they dance

the flower dance.

My underwear has been dirty for five days

because I’m constantly on the go

I go

and go

and now, there are pee stains and brown streaks

on my boxer briefs,

like a race car that can’t afford a pit stop.

What happened to philosophy, and summing up the Italian Renaissance in one poem, like Dante’s Inferno?

I miss the lonely days

full of rain

where the flowers choked on depression.

Now, spring is here

and they line-up, beautiful and primmed

but there is no time for flower arranging

no time for Zen

no time for the art of archery.

We are the targets of our idolatry

We pierce our organs

that refuse to play the song of the soul

because we lost it at the gym, doing squats.

The flower is our first priority—how absurd

and now,

beauty triumphs over the truth.