Serenity’s prayer,
far from what comes as it may,
rejects her silence.
“I cannot change Him!” she wails!
“Flowers will grow from my corpse!”
When one could escape,
even by pains, his love lost,
call it “suicide.”
Accepting humility
makes execution easy.
Unswallow “Happy” pills.
Spit your last epigram.
I will love you, no more.
Dim recognition
in a familiar setting
brightened my corner.
Mitts raised, in front of my face,
I took a defensive stance.
What do I stand for?
Words, like sharp and hollow straws,
form a hexagram.
“Innermost Sincerity”
restrains my cock-crow at “God.”
However, the lines fall;
weather the seasons’ change;
my grave will bear the mark.
Bright April morning
blows birdsong through my screen door.
What a way to wake!
Half-aware of its insides,
I gather my form’s edges.
Something exploded
in a place no one visits,
last night in Heaven.
You can keep the things that pass,
in pitch, in an empty jar.
Open it to the sun:
I do not have reason
to empty my ashes.
You wrote twenty words,
about a letter, or so,
in an open box.
You could write them in large type.
The words were big, if they fit.
Smart men made the box.
They knew little boxes fit
everything big.
Those men made lots of money,
putting us in small boxes.
The boxes got smaller,
and they made more money,
on our open boxes.