Every morning I am bombarded by riches.
The darkness told me not to get up,
But with focus, super-human, I picked out, and put on, my pants.
A poem is a minor thought,
My ordinary movement, a dance.
The sunlight in a puddle is Renaissance art,
The air in the train is warm, made slightly warmer by a fart.
Who farted? A question for the ages.
Who is guilty? Give them higher wages.
The most beautiful has some creepy and ugly, too.
This morning is exactly beautiful. And exactly true.
The exact is reality. Focus on that,
Not what someone says about the weather. Don’t. Shut up. Take your hat.
The exact is what you always do.
So you are beautiful in this morning, and true.
But the exact enslaves you, too.
Love is exact. Just you.
Poetry is unfortunately exact. Isn’t that true?