Preemptive Obituaries
Well I certainly am writing a lot these days. I try to dilute my prolific self-centeredness with the occasional haiku, but if I really had any Zen in me, I would forgo the whole ordeal entirely. But then I glimpse that clump of crocuses Defiantly emerged from the snow, and say "f__k it" my unheard croaks are just as much a part of nature's call as the galactic waves of what we call life, that so strangely and periodically emerge when there should be nothing at all. And of course there might in fact be nothing at all, though it does present itself as quite a substantial something or other.
That said. I get it. People have better things to do, than reading my poetry. Even I have better things to do than reading my poetry. There is toast to be buttered, and deer to be fed, wandering as they now are out of the wood where they had sheltered in the ice storm that made a hard crusty snow too dangerous for their thin legs to -even carefully- walk in.
Anyway, now that we've left the manufacture of our thoughts in the hands of influencers, companies, and mostly crooked politicians I would have expected a much better quality of thought not to mention, life, but it's the same old dressed up rigamarole of insecurities cupidities and hate. I at least have the decency to admit that I don't really know what I am talking about and am in fact amazed at the balderdash spewing from my lips and profoundly confused that this language found my brain at a vulnerable enough time to burrow itself in and lay claim to being my -strange as it is- native tongue.
I suspect there is something seriously wrong, or at the least, that the sense of this senseless parade is somewhere high above my pay grade.
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