Wouldn't it be nice to be a poet My words trickling down the spine of today tickling it into a quiver Maybe just a singer living an unknown existence as a nightclub template a concert instrument feigning experience and feeling in a musty recording room with other stringed instruments. I could be a communist with a book and a belief A practical philosopher overlooking embedded paradox Maybe just a desk worker begrudgingly finishing every day until sleep. I surrender, fighting against a mob of mediocre abilities but a belief about being nobody and nothing. If i could call myself by any name to aspire to be it maybe i could tame this lop-sided freedom unaided with hope or desire like an angry animal ravaging in every direction in space To be - as Adrienne Rich said - be as without movement.
Mostly I brush life off my shoulder when it falls gently from a tree, or when it grows from my shirt like lint. Mostly i sigh it away like a laugh from an unfounded joke or a waft of extra air in speech. Except sometimes.