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.

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