So come my friends, be not afraid / We are so lightly here
-- Leonard Cohen
We can’t take any of it
with us to the other side of the veil
So what’s it matter if the huge soaking tub
is mine or a moneyed stranger's?
Repeat that to a mind unable to tune out
how unhurried bliss & love minus
the pallor of scarcity are most attainable
for those who score shout-outs in hefty wills,
while some slice off a little Good Life
through grift or proxy, & others get legit
distracted by the concept of striving —
or as Jack just texted, We are but specks
in space & this is what you choose???
Here’s to the rest of us, fixated on cosmic dealings
ancient beyond human intervention.
Give us our daily digest of microplastics
& plots to place ads in our dreams.
Anonymous donors sponsored today’s witnessing
of Art & I treated myself to a bath bomb
while reading about the demise of the Choco Taco
& why "no one” “wants” “to work” “anymore"
Among the many natural predators of poets,
mine include developers, executives, khaki-wearers,
talking appliances & the people who respond,
every job I’ve had since adolescence.
I’m still holding out for dream gigs like UFO hotline operator
& the hot dog barge guy high-fiving sun drunks
noon ’til dusk on the Delaware River,
or anything that involves choosing what happens
with one’s day for more of a day than not
Conditions are ripe for a new mystic, but all that
fervor & discipline goes against my divine purpose
of hanging out, noting as many good uses for
my body before I’ve got to leave it behind.
The latest when Warren & I kicked off our shoes
to dance with the Sun Ra Arkestra on cemetery grounds
The atrium shot through with sweat-and-sequin glow
& sounds of assurance that the astral realm is real,
unlike the alienating notion of Tuesday, 6:37 pm
More citations needed re: that Norwegian island
voting to abolish time, & W.S. Merwin not picking up
his phone for 30 years in service of the Muse
I’m not even trying to get off the hedonic treadmill —
only to figure out how others manage to slow it
Where a revelation would be, the poem
gets lukewarm tub water with a violet fizz
of glitter— its indestructible glint
as good as stardust in some distant karmic cycle