i watched a 13 year old girl of less than 100 pounds kick the face clean off another, terrified, i have been scrabbling like a duck ever since

thank you
for your wishes
of kindness.

i wake
to a muttering
and oblique
hell,
as i have
for most of
my life.
this is not
what i think
i would preference,
were i better
able to
understand
how to wield
my “choice”.

perhaps
i will learn
to interpret
my environment
in ways that
register less
hellishly
and
howling
in my
internal
world.

i am
lucky
and
thankful for
the continued
opportunity
to practice.

“how is the
harbor this
morning?” i
am asked.
“are you
glistening
with sweat?”,
is my reply.
the harbor,
it is
dimpled and
chattering.
the sweat,
it has not
brought forth a
crystalline sheen.

a 1/4 inch of
fiberglass,
yes, and
a skittering
heart, are
either capable
of providing
any
lasting refuge?
or;
a tree grows
in bark
until
we strip it
and cut it
and
use it, in
a brief heat.

or, again—
for my friends
in Oregon;
heat, my
morning mug
is painted
yellow.
it keeps
its contents
hot for
far longer
than hell
heats my
sweatless
mind.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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