This morning, the breeze from my fan reminding me
to go with the flow whenever I can,
and the roll of toilet paper I keep next to my computer
should I need to blow my shnoz in a hurry
and cough my grass allergy and worries about dying
before fifty
into a waste basket that echoes how my sadness
for feeling like having and being more than enough
is never enough,
feel like ancient, immortal, relative gods
a demi-god would discover had been guiding him
from an unknown, ancient civilization,
forgotten beneath the godless world,
like the forgotten cry of angry, Ambien and wine guzzling
ex-wives, happier staying asleep than admitting
they want a permanent vacation, and no longer know
how to look nonjudgmental, but still want to be wanted.
It’s moments like these I imagine my little Buddha statue
on the writing desk inside my wooden head saying that
judgmental thinking can be distilled into simply realizing
you want something you think you’re not good enough
to have, beside it my trendy Himalayan salt lamp of healing
blinking happiness on and off like a friend or loved one
pretending to be congratulatory at a birthday party,
and why I’m usually not invited to those.
the real subject is always you 