I Don’t Get It.

Maybe I don’t get it
or I just get it too well.

But for all the hells I lived in
Just so they could win the prize
their eyes kept following ’round the room of life

This cousin became a ‘happy’ housewife or so they say
Nothing bigger better finer wetter
than a bag of laundry

That one was CIA but his kid is bald anyway
studying for an online Masters in Catholic religious studies and so obviously still confused…

Sure, there are some engineers and those into arts
and I used to be a writer – or just a wannabe one.
But let’s be honest and real:

That bald kid of the big shot relative uses engineering money to pay for his meaning seeking and late at night when he’s still lonely and musing

He plays Beethoven sonatas on piano and violin so I guess that education didn’t go to waste, either.

But with your dying breath you still ask me why I didn’t do more and get more and become more?

Take your shield, your tattered ego and broken sense of self
I am not here to meet your needs and you did not meet mine

Sometimes we produce kindred spirits and sometimes
We reproduce our husband’s worst traits and feel surrounded by the enemy even as we love them half to death

But then we get away and so do they
Each running for that gasp of the fresh air of life unfettered

Or better yet, just unpressured by any past of expectation for any nation creed or deed

We all go to our graves with intact egos full of fear and failure laughter and grace in our own space and time

…as I work on the left hand placement for simple songs and view another youtube video on causality consciousness and the socio-cultural correlates of war

I can feel the waves of my unrelated related semi distant cousin’s soul in my own ‘collection of all that went before us’ soul… we are all just a drop of spit in an ocean lurking with the hidden springs of life

Dangerous and fulfilling, this life, this moment, these children and these parents
all one and the same rhythmic pattern we ride and hide in under the banyon tree.

Sons of the great or sons unknown – All were children like your own



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