I wish everyone would move at my pace
and nobody would give me an ugly face.
I wish my questions would be answered directly
because my grief is not as transitory as the minutes and the hours.
I’m re-reading emails for offers, re-reading messages from missed lovers,
making risks with money and regretting the hand’s not taken.
We lean so far over our phablets until we are swallowed whole by growing gorilla glass.
Everyone has their own fucked perceptions of social class and what it means to have some.
House of Cards and True Detective anxiety attacks leaving me as negative as the windchill.
And I get my thrills staying up in a sugar coma until I can’t help but question myself.
And the siren song of a sudden significant memory
lures me away from the sea of the moment towards an island of sorrow.
And I wonder what our place would be like if I could shake my past, dig up these roots and tell ya it would last.
And if I had the album linings for everyone’s lives and login for everyone’s heart,
I think that I would still be ignorant to their essence.
My own nucleus keeps me guessing, keeps me on edge, gulping and sweating.
We are so alarmed and firmly carved into bluffs of concern and consternation,
yet all the issues and the protests and the uproar has a short shelf life.
How quickly we are distracted by the plight of a family member,
the changing leaves of a spouse outgrown,
the prospect of an unpaid FASFA loan, the next Netflix season drop,
the fear of a hip and heady boat missed, the sick satisfaction showing everyone up,
or the song or painting or poem left unfinished.
This living has been so crammed and heavy that this poem seems obligatory.
My story needs its narrator again, and finally, here I am,
writing empty quotations for a title to another freshie chapter.
That last one took a while to conclude, but standing here in this first snow,
I know I’ve been absolved.
I can produce less of these patchwork soul spills and return to form:
Gonzo, Beat, course; what you all want.
I’ll raise the millennial sigil proud, I know potential when I see it.
With our sure footed voices and rapid keystrokes, we will fight against the repetition of history.
Against the suboxone social staff infection, against the freak love of
consuming spending capitalizing idolizing fetishizing panderizing oligarchy,
against boundaries of space sound sex and race, against willful ignorance by
the solo flyers who deny the togetherness.
Seven years so far. As I gaze at my world, Boston, I see it much as I did at the onset.
Thousands of hipsters and suits and wooks and gangbangers
and educators and coworkers and customers and friends
and ladies I have touched and traded arguments and glares
and songs and advice and papers and shifts and ounces and love
and orgasms. In mad sick sniffling smog night, the girls with their onyx tights
and malachite handbags and garnet boots are looking for some recognition.
The boys with their kyanite jeans and ruby ties and tourmaline hoodies are
hoping to find a love like their mother’s. Little children awake past their bedtime
act out Nintendo worlds with spinning sword slashing leg sweep combos,
battling our lingering demons too close for us to know ourselves.
I’ve climbed from ruin, I’ve lain in bed with despair, I’ve made promises kept,
I’ve completed my degree, I’ve kept the same job for a year, I’ve picked up where I left off,
I’ve had to go my way, I’ve raged sober, I’ve thought of you quite often,
I’ve been in the trenches of the soul and it’s been a beautiful battle.
I’ve been waiting for so long to hear of my fate.
Trapped between my salvation search and the mess i’ve made.
Things are better now, clean and humbled.
But it’s not the punishment the system prescribes.
County this and Federal that, the fear instilled.
It is my will to be the do-gooder, they will not break my will.
The world’s beauty will not fall to its ugliness,
but we are sacrificing some light everyday.
When will the norm, society, home and here be safe
to practice and live purely for loving energy?
I see folks abandon that which they love to search
for some place to exist as their heart demands.
Seclusion, escape or foreign land.
Their community is not their sangha, their teachers are not their guru.
But why not?
There is not enough belief in one another, darkness is the certainty.
Trust has become a yarn they weave, resentment the mud they heave.
Some souls are broken and helpless but only in their minds.
Nights of squalor or sorrow poison their hope for tomorrow.
Encourage each other, accept humanity’s faults. They need you.
Find grace as often as possible. Do not get discouraged by yourself.
I fill my head with music, scan pages of books, eat too much.
In our neighborhoods there are those who can not understand music.
In our neighborhoods there are those who can not read to learn.
In our neighborhoods there are those who can not pay food’s price.
Feel sorry for the less fortunate and pledge to help.
It’s easy to be overwhelmed, to be diagnosed, to piss yourself.
But despite all that we can still reason and pray.
Think about living from the soul, not for your ego’s dismay.
Think heavy thoughts because there is one life and its trying to float away.