Rice Crispies, Coffee, and Toaster Oven Toast

Conversations reflect the art of living, beyond the FB/Twitter/IG/Snapchat definition of my attention. In these moments, I find poetry. My purpose magnified to see the beautiful ugly in everything, separating myself from means, so I can be the end. I take notes. I hear the allegory. The truth doesn't whisper. It shouts like thunder. 

So desperate was I to mourn that I denied the dream I carried. I refused to hear, even when I fingered cake batter like my grandmother. She gave me poetry, but, more than that, she confirmed my faith in something I could see. Words are a means. I am the vessel. I can see myself. I am bigger than the medical misunderstandings that come with defiance. I am just as much God as the collared ministers or the homeless man. I am no better, no worse. I don't have to live like either of them. I just have to know me.

How do you do that? Do you invest innerg creating situations to disspell the myths? Sure. I did. I pushed the envelope sealed with foolish expectations and surpassed. I ran, rode my bike, played ball, acted in plays, sang, and fell in love with life. I worked at savoring myself, spending hours writing songs with birds and squirrels. I dug in flowerbeds. I gathered nuts. I taught history by making it everyday. 

Chaos is not the human condition. It festers out of that lonely place where we feel less than. It smoke screens our truth until we lie under it, choking on smog instead of drinking alkaline. Poetry is the porch, the stoop, the corner. We are outside of our truest, flexing and maxing, telling the same sermon until the bling washes away. Honesty comes when the audience is a black empty space and nobody is checking for you.

Everyday, someone works. For you, with you, against you. Your biggest battle is seeing you for who you are. Then, you can see them. Then, you can hear the limerick vs the lie. I'm so much more than poetry. I'm a gift, a peace of the universe, a dream, life eternal.