Yin, Yang

and other poems

Yin, Yang

Infinite layers of time,
lost then found,
of noumenon pure, sustained.
Sinners sanctified,
all acts become just,
heartfelt indifference reigns.

One man is mankind,
drinks from all waters,
seasoned by every stream –
all pleasure complex,
senses, all thoughts,
heightened, buoyed by pain.

Each life colors, hues,
pigments, affects,
engenders the next.
In endless ensemble
all words are spoken,
voids determine, abstract.


He Made a Living

He knew early on there would be no mentors.
His father knew and tried to beat his way
through the web of childhood anarchy
with a riding crop – to instill responsibility.

Education was years of standup comedy,
with a few plucks of philosophical humor –
moments of interest in mostly what was not known,
none, in memorizing and reciting the for sure.

He was bored with nothing to do, so it wasn’t
the task or the time, it was the buffoonery
that someone would know better,
and have the audacity to tell him so.

Night shifts alone, self-employed,
on the road, always when possible
knowing that the slavery was his to manage,
his ideas, not barked at by some pompous ass.

He worked hard all his life, never for the money,
or to have both feet on the ground –
he worked hard at not having a job,
at making a living that seemed like his life.

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