It’s all good
even when it isn’t.
Even when your ship doesn’t come in
even when your flush doesn’t
hit on the river
even when your car won’t start
or your wife left you
or the check isn’t
in the mail.

It’s all good.

Black or white.
Victor or vanquished.
Golden spoon or no spoon.
Judge or just the janitor.
It’s all good.

We just play our role
and it makes no sense
struggling in our chains
when we don’t even know
why we’re here or really
what’s going on.

Latent structure rules obvious structure.
We live blind playing a game of
incomplete information.

So laugh.
I guarantee you
the universe
Krisha
the great Kahuna in the sky
those sentient atoms
swirling around
are
all laughing at you
or even if they aren’t
it’s all good.

We don’t know shit.
Just be glad to still
be here
standing naked
a disfigured, misinformed ape
40 lbs overweight
standing in the middle
of an empty room
alone
before the mirror of time.

It’s all good.
Even when it ain’t.

I’m tired.
Truthfully. Sincerely.
I’ve had enough.

There should be a place you can go
like a massage parlor
where you enter, relax
and then don’t come out
(of course, you pay upfront).
Clean, tidy, that’s all she wrote.

I’m not asking for much.
Maybe some nice music,
a glass of wine, a hand to hold
then it’s over
you’re outta here.

There’s too many of us here anyway.
Why does it have to be so difficult
to exit stage left, do the sayonara?

I don’t want to run in front of a bus
jump off a bridge or hang alone from a door frame.
I just want to get it done
sanely, safely
like how you shut off the lights
gracefully, contentedly
after a full day of sun at the beach.

We’re all gonna die
so once you’ve put in a good number of years
you should be allowed
a coward’s way out.
You’ve earned it.
Dontcha think?

Can someone tell me
where my off button is?

It’s been 6 hours now
no electric
so calm
almost like things were meant to be
no internet noise
no TV selling me stuff
just the vultures overhead
keepin’ watch
and the always wind
a pleasant roar
up my unders
as I sit here in the hammock.

Reminds me of when
I was a kid
newspaper in hand
cleaning the kerosene lamps
one by one
while dreaming of African adventures
or building a battery powered radio
of my own.

Almost heaven. Almost.
Or the garden of Eden
except
I’ve got mangoes here
no apples
and no worries
of a god
I’ve arm wrestled to death long ago
many drunken nights ago.

Time for a warm beer.
They aren’t so bad
said my beloved Hrabal
rubbing his bald head
years ago in some other paradise.
Not so bad.
Better a warm beer than
a cold German woman.

My beer is gone.
So too heaven.
The hydro’s back on.
The man has got his act together
and in the kitchen
murder is taking place
as the blender roars.

Damn.
I wish some people
had a plug I could pull out.

I am different.