one man at a time

perspective,

child,

he says.

it's all in perspective.

that's why the birds

hold the keys to the world.

you are not god

and you are not satan.

you are something somewhere between,

just like the rest of us-

more than water,

less than the stars.

see these sparks i'm flicking

off my cigarette?

it's exactly what you could be,

but aren't.

fire.

ash.

you're smoke-

halfway between

fading and swelling.

your place is not with

the soil

or the sky,

but with the trees,

standing tall

above your roots,

but still bowing

before the sun.

being is hard,

i know,

my child,

but you are not alone.

you will make many acquaintances

throughout your days,

but you will find

most of your true friends

to be dead.

talk to hemingway.

speak to frost.

learn the trick to living

is breathing

and it is okay to live like a poet.

and god?

i ask.

bullshit,

he spits.

i believe in verse.

not yourself?

one day,

child,

one day

when pride cannot be our downfall.

one day we will quit

worshipping bukowski

like he is our religion

and we will instead choose to

quietly honor ourselves.

but for now,

we wait

with eyes towards the sky

and feet kicking

to see if there's

anything at all.