What I wish people knew is
Whatever the secret is
To not being whatever is
What we are.
(Not sure how poetic that be.)
I’m calling out to my new friends,
It’s an S-O-S which could easily turn into LOL
Or I’m crazy at 5150,
Then again, I might be 10-36
(a snake in the park-Busch Gardens code, circa 1983-I think),
So just go with this randomness, 10-4, “Roger that,”
And understand that the original call for help
Is just so that we understand
That we are all just people
Trying to survive here,
But often times spending our efforts effing things up.
Going for money,
Going for control,
Going for gratification or
Garnering support for our manufactured crises
Rarely happens to my mornings of
Running in the cold and dark
(Sometimes I have a flashlight, sometimes not)
Making them all the more fun,
Since we are not out there for the money,
Exercising a little control, and
Full of loads of gratification
As I get to hear about others
And their life experiences
That leaves me feeling
Not just in the physical domain,
But also in the philosophical,
Bull shit kind of way
That being around REAL people allows.
We are life.
We are the show.
We are the ones finding meaning,
Wrestling with our questions,
Waxing on, or off, about the idiocy of
Please don’t misinterpret,
In am no actualized New Age convert.
My questions are in there, maybe even out there,
Why am I assertively negative,
Able to bitch in a single bound,
Faster to quip than a speeding bullet?
I know why…
It feels authentic to me,
A genetic pull towards a realization
That the way I see the world is the way it must be
And I have come to this realization in moments
When my hubris runs into the touchy feeling mamby-pamby esoteric
Way that the spiritual stretchers take honest to goodness misery
And present it an R2D2 symphony of hoots and whistles
Where pretend positivity hides actual misery
In some hot dogma of lotus this and that.
Again, don’t get me wrong,
Yoga has its place,
But it can be just as over the top
As any fitness fad,
Including my beloved running in the cold and dark.
So as I review my ranting ways,
And the joy of getting out there with other creatures of the morn,
Am I what I hate?…
A PASSIVE, CHAKRA SEARCHING BUNNY
WHO DARES TO HIDE BEHIND
THE GOODNESS OF CHRYSTALS,
HUFFING INSENSE STICKS, AND
SWEATING TO TIBETAN SINGING BOWLS
DURING SESSIONs OF INSPIRED SIGHING
SO THAT I MIGHT CURRY SYMPATHY FROM
OTHER RHYTHMIC BREATHING SWEAT HOGS
WHO THINK A SUTRA IS SOMETHING TO STITCH
MEANING TO THEIR REAL HOUSEWIFE-HUSBAND
STYLE OF LIVING LIFE.
Nope, that’s not me.
I’ll take this moment to brave the #-jurors,
Own my lack of understanding
Of the ethereal power of masking emotional failures
With the timely expression of some
So that I might proclaim myself
Neither passive, polite, or politically correct,
But in love with that bizarre culture that is all at once glowing,
If not in that way that the Superman molecule chamber
Stole positivity from the potential of some good, old fashioned
Adolescent inspired, sarcastic, irreverent, and drama-free
My truth is that I don’t want
Too much of me out there,
(funny since I’m a blogging poet…)
I’m sincerely selective about who I let in,
Seriously sarcastic, unafraid of being struck by lightning for misstatement,
And a fragile jumble of failures
THAT ARE FOR ME TO WORK THROUGH
WITHOUT THE CAFFEINE INDUCED SELF-SERVING THERAPY
THAT A RECTANGULAR TABLE IS ILL-SUITED FOR.
Geometrically, it is all wrong:
Too many edges (I would be one)
Too many corners (Me, again)
To much space for the kind of comfortable intimacy therapy requires.
Sure, it’s no job interview with an office in the offer,
That’s different and an HR nightmare,
Probably more than somewhat off the rails.
So instead of dropping an overly affected mic and
Parachuting into a well-established routine of potential lunacy,
I just run,
Leaving my insecurities with me and wondering what it would be like
To surf in the morning and ski in the afternoon
Instead of watching teenaged kids bounce volleyballs off the ceiling
While talking about STEM bull shit
About the terminal cracking velocity of an egg
Dropped down a stairwell and protected by various thicknesses of bubble wrap.
The egg is already broken. Its job is to make a chicken. It can’t do that, so it needs a plan B, which is to feed a person. If it’s one of those STEM eggs, it can’t do that either as some egg head politician, professor, or parent thinks it’s a good idea to drop sustenance in the bowels of schools for the intellectual understanding of physics rather than scrambling pompous educational theory and frying that egg up for someone who really needs it.
Eff your STEM and its lack of social awareness for getting food where it is needed.
Back to the real rant…
Nope, I rather just hang with my new friends
Sure that their ideas and goals
Are probably not much different than mine,
-Laugh stuff off
Especially where I’m concerned
For no amount of running,
No quantity of downward dogs,
And no measure of desperation
Should move me to go from feeling like a victim
To victimizing a group of runner’s high junkies
With my down and out depressive energy.
Not that I have any, mom.
I’m just ranting,
Spewing my negative in that assertive way I proudly announced earlier,
Without the enlightened positivity
That drains me of my life force,
So, purveyors of Pollyanna positivity,
Cultivators of phony problems,
You’re giving us honest negatives a bad name.