Because there are no others here, I too stand on the precipice
Looking down into the slumbering giant's gaping hole.
The grandstands are chocked full of them.
Then you get used to all the times they left town, dogged
By atmospheric changes to some degree.
The last great sunset happens nowadays at intervals
Timed to the arrival of the chortling, huddled masses
That interpret this as poetry. How nice would that be?
To be swept along by warm mediterranean breezes
And to be far enough from battlefields that you never
Have to breathe the stench of combat's stinky socks.
Being plugged into the sun would be just as nice;
One would think so, but there are people there also
That report this sort of news and we'd like to believe
We have options. Just ask your stockbroker. Or ask
Abbey Hoffman, who threw dollar bills off a balcony
At the NY Stock Exchange. Ask Allen Ginsberg,
Who chronicled the most accurate account of the wild and wolly sixties!
Ask your sunflower!
It beats doing time in a factory; beats playing cribbage: beats
Being beat in alleys, night after night, outside some bar.
Look, I know you are there. I can hear you breathing into your cell phone.
Play the part you were assigned; don't be so anxious to play any part,
Chances are you'll go real far.
Meanwhile, there will be others to stand in your gap, hold your pretty hand,
Tell you about the clemency of the gentle farce you are engaged in now.
Time has a way of planting a vineyard when it is least expected.
However many times you ask makes no difference. It is in the asking
One finds strength. So, don't belittle yourself, or your lack of assets.
Everything is in motion as it should be; whether the story ends today
Or tomorrow, who is to know the outcome? Buy yourself a present.
Put it in a sturdy box.