Ain’t it grand
to have a brain,
abrasive and sharp
yet guided by a pair of eyes
that steady it as it grows
impatient with unreasonable
living; with the contradictory demands
of people upon themselves and their stubborn
insistence that they are not the agents
of their being, that they are completely
at the mercy of events and others’ judgments
and actions.  Ain’t it grand

to recognize yourself
in their pleading, to sit back and reflect
with your brilliant brain upon what you’ve seen,
and see how you have done the same
and continue to do so.

Ain’t it the perfect touch
when you reflect on the worst fallacy of all —
that you claim to stand separate from yourself at times,
that you are not only not in charge but on occasion
are completely independent of the mess around you,
you stand watching yourself act, you claim
not to believe you are that person
doing such horrible things, such stupid things,
that your fiery, fence-leaping mind
is in abeyance at those times and,
much as you watch and marvel at the others
as they flounder, you try to insist
that you were not in control of those moments.

Ain’t it a joke and a half.

Ain’t it sweet when you fall at last
into unity, and realize that all those times
you were an idiot and an asshole
you were totally an asshole and idiot
and you begin to own your cruelty and idiocy
as expressions of your whole being,
that you are not split and cavernous within
built of rooms that do not connect
but are instead just another man
with sharp brain and sharp eyes
who could use them ever after
to hold yourself steady in place,
complete as you always have been,
not a demon box full of actors
but humbly, thoroughly whole
in the midst of the worst of your actions.
In the moment of that utter shame
you will sow and reap at once
the peace you’ve always insisted
was forever out of reach.

When you’re ready,
you come by and see me
then.  You spend a little time
on the work you need to do,
including learning to relax about it;
nothing says you have to be so damn serious
all the time.  You do that work,
come by my house when we can talk
about nothing, casually, just discuss
the rain or some dumb TV show
that’s just fun, kinda thing that lets me
turn my own running monologue off,
and you’ll be welcome.

I spent too many years being serious
to like it much anymore.
It just kept stretching me
on a rack full of questions.  I finally
answered most and learned that the rest
don’t ever get answered — we don’t learn
exactly how to love each other, we just keep trying;
we don’t ever light every dark cranny
of the mind, figure out the roots
of every thing we do or understand why
we blurt exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time
though we know it’s wrong when we do it;
we do not ever get our parents completely,
and war and peace and justice don’t happen
eventually, they’re mostly process issues
and there’s not much new content —
there’s always been evil in the world and it doesn’t go away
just because we think it will.  We will always fight
the fight, ask the questions, answer in the moment
knowing there will be a new answer, or the same answer
will bear repeating, the next time it rears its head.
I know all that now.  So if you want to talk,

if you really want to talk to me,
come prepared with beer, a bucket,  and a lightning rod.
It’ll be stormy outside.  If we’re struck
we’ll put out the fire.  If there’s another flood
we’ll bail till the ark is ready.  And we’ll do it all
a little drunk, a little happy, and a little certain
of it passing by at some point.  It’ll be back,
for sure.  We’ll be more ready next time
and in the meantime, we’ll laugh a little.

All I was ever guaranteed
was a right to the pursuit
of happiness, not to
its capture.  Not one thing
has ever been sure in life —
there’s no right to see
the aurora borealis, the
emerald flash, the Grand Canyon.
Billions have died without ever seeing
these things, without knowing love,
children, freedom from want,
care, disease, war, famine and
bad weather.  Those things are mine
to face as well; I have no more right
to anything more than to be able to strive
for a chance at these things.

So when those rare moments come
of sun on my neck and a good message
from a friend, a word in the right space,
a robin refusing to move aside for my car,
a yellow tip on a daffodil spike,

I imagine myself a hunter
who will eat well tonight,
a seer thrown back into reverie
at a curtain of purple sheer before the stars,
a godly man sleeping soundly
with his family, sure of the morning.
I become a peasant who never expected
any of this, one of billions who have lived and died
since someone first scratched a bison prayer
into a rock wall, thinking of tomorrow
as if it could indeed
be different from yesterday and today;

whoever is modern cannot be more
than an ancient being
when seized by the ecstasy of a second
filled with a promise exceeded,
a pursuit completed for now
to be resumed in the seconds to follow.

Chickpea curry, homemade lassi
and good spicy rice.
A Wednesday night dinner,
perfectly timed, laid out
before you and companions
full of talk and gentle opinion.
Can you imagine a better life
than this?  Of course you can…

but it’s not something
you feel like doing,
really, not a thing you feel like doing
at all tonight.

Burn one, drink one, and move into the flow
of talk and ease for once,
for once not caring for anything
but this feeling
of being pleasantly full.

— with thanks to Lea, Victor, and Mike