If I was responsible
I would sell my discipline for higher wages.
As it is, I blame the supermarket shoppers
and the crowds of Buddha-dreamers crossing the Himalayans
pursuing visions of acceptance.
Survival is a closed evolution – stealth and teeth,
a method where love has no allegiance.
I don’t want anymore, not spacecraft theories, not mornings
of self-defeating mythology or philosophical discussions.
I don’t want degrees of ecstasy or appointments.
I refuse to grow into a ghost or budge my integrity for
a bowl of temporary fulfilment. And here, I am wrong,
don’t belong with the wine-seller stockers and
the coral reef hiders.
I have a garden where I walk through the tall weeds,
eliminate insects with methodical steps like squashing
the patterns of horoscopes, a place where I crush
newspaper absurdities, sidestep the reactionary circle-act,
redefining my personal salvation.
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