My sadness is warm blanket
that keeps the chill from
winter winds away,
but that sadness is also
an incubator of the dark
skies that the winter
moon draws upon us all.
I keep myself tucked in
away from real pain
and warmed from what
I don’t want to feel.
That blanket of sadness
even my better sense
of knowing when it’s okay
to feel chilled by death.
angst isn’t so much angst anymore
as it is a thing called america.
and america isn’t so much america anymore
as it is a thing made up of trashy
bits, pieces–refuse that has no other home.
And home isn’t so much a place where you live
as it is a state of mind that has been sold to you
while you cobble your meager scraps of
burlap wanderings so tough that not even
a bramble would find a home for rabbits there
only sheep, shorn, and led into the slaughter
of a gas chamber called exxon, or sunoco,
or shell, or whatever other hell you want as fuel
for your selfish petty desires that don’t resemble desire
as much as they resemble the white rabbit
you chase, not for knowledge, or time, but for whatever
drug sold to you that isn’t so much a drug
as it is a thing to believe, that you need,
that you breed into the dissonance you pass on
with each foreboding apocalypse, and good riddance
to the next person you don’t know, but disagree with
because, you know, your angst tells you so,
People like to pretend that they exist in a system
where control and happenstance do not coexist.
That is to say, that they can control
what they want, when they want,
and blame the universe for all they cannot.
For myself, the world, nay, all existence
is controlled by a system that cares little for
any proposition that doesn’t add to the totality of being.
Nothing is ever repeated;
Nothing is ever deleted;
It is re-substantiated.
For the substance of all worth
on this earth, or anywhere for that matter,
is that we are slowly dawning new realms
Control isn’t chance.
It is planned.
Chance isn’t so much loss of control
as it is detailed planning
of all contingencies.
You cannot plan for everything,
but everything can plan for you.
And there is a chance that
all you can control is accidents.
A wish mistaken for a slow breeze
Breathing down a sharp ravine littered with trees
That seemed to just hold on,
But for their growth on a narrow cliff
That seemed too, to wish for something more than
A shallow gulf not deep enough to die in,
But more than enough to just hold on to.