It's not everything; to sit and watch the world
shift between abstractions is like sleep. It's not love.
It's not wisdom. It's not nature. It's not anything
but a blue-brown paper bag to carry your thoughts
because there is no where else to put them.
I wouldn't say ironic. We aren't really trying to discover
secrets. It's not about that.
You can sit in swamp musk and find it
after realizing the world is not so disgusting,
but that we are.
It's about coping with yourself
and all of your shit;
sewing shoes together;
selling the ridiculously semi-sentimental trinkets
your parents gave you and making some cash;
taking them to the park with your dog;
watching your dog find happiness
and knowing you'll always just be