Good or bad?
Career direction,
Rat race,
Get ahead,
Big house,
Big bills,
Crowded social card,

Eff all that.

Good or bad?
Comfortable with people I’m around.

True dat.

I’m old,
Not so much so
That I don’t have ambition,
But on this day
When the rumor got around
That I was being considered for a job
I would never interview for,
I got a burr,
One that was angry,
Potentially burning dirty,
Flaming across the fields of whatever plain
I work on,
And then I remembered,

Eff that.

That’s all I said,
Because the career thing
Is something I’m over,
Work is work, I’m as high as I want to be.
I’m more in touch with the base of my brain,
Wanting challenge, accepting things,
Not interested in other people’s perception
Of what humans are supposed to be,
Unless that means human,
Not artificially stimulated by this substance,
That possession, tradition, political affiliation.
I’d rather see what happens
On a long run,
Experience the gratification of expression
Through writing, or the peace during
A quiet meditation.

True dat.

“And sink their bones to Davey Jones, hooray!” John Hagen, Anchors Aweigh

Of things to be severed,
The hardest to cut off
Are those attached to hope,
Chained to ideas of good,
At least in the sense that we are all good,
That we deserve to be treated optimistically
As people who can bring more positivity into our lives
And thereby receive the bountiful energy that we have to offer back.

To cut off caring is something so hard to do, even
When people use terminal situations to manipulate, even
When people say things to drive home their insensitivities, even
When actions are meant to provoke negative reactions.
Yet age is teaching me
That my job and the actors within our theater portraying an arena of progress
Must be treated with the same jaded stink eye
Reserved for professions with far less noble causes.

Writing that thought makes me sad
For I don’t want to think about what I do in that way.
But days like today, where the drag on my caring anchor
Pitted me against youthful canyons of entitlement and outright rudeness
In the depths of a trench a quarter of a century in the digging,
Has left me with a blow torch ready burn through the negative irons
Allowing that anchor, the one expecting good, to hook all that the darkest depths
Offer all too regularly.
My shovel has been toiling in this morass for far too long and
By now I would think my heart should have the callouses to protect it
From the barbs, the jabs, and the disrespect people throw at each other
For no conceivable reason other than they are living a life
Of the lowest expectations.