The Perfect Is The Enemy Of The Good

I can make it work, I swear.
I’ve seen others do it.
There’s no formula.
There’s not a reason in the world for me to fail.
Talent’s just a word for ambition easily realized.
Work is the balm for the wounded ambition.
I can make it happen.
Everyone does something well.
The oak tree makes great acorns.
The octopus is the ink master.
The dimples on the golf ball are its perfect expression.
I can be the best of what I am.
The work will make it stick out.
The blank page is the best prod to capture the fullness.
A single word well placed is smarter than a key.
There are inherent risks in being a master.
Stalling is the crucifixion of the divine nature.
Denial of the passion of the art is blasphemy to the Godhead.
A work of art is the gruff shovel that opens the grave of the revenant.
I can be the digger of movement.
I can sweat the devil’s coat seams.
I can do this.
Talent is a word for the blood of a prophet.
Denial is a misdirected nut fallen on bare stone.
Divinity is just an excuse for the acceptance of failure.
I can’t do this.
There’s no formula.
There’s a reversal spell that could be written.
I can’t imagine the dialect of such a wizard.
I can’t make work of what is best explained through talent.
I have no talent in the face of my demon inkmaster.
I have no answer for why the pen breaks.
I am no master
and no teacher
and no student of the way
and I park the ass that Mirabai refused to ride
in front of my house at night
to await the slog to the failure mines tomorrow.

Tags: poems, poetry, meditations