Miami – Canadian Moose KingsbyWillow Rain©
talk total shit behind me.
"Everyone is a follower."
"I don't believe in good and evil."
they speak in absolutes.
"I can't lead a linear life."
They long for individuality
leaning into each other
for insubstantial comfort.
They want to feel that they are
and not alone.
They sound so painfully young
I ache for them.
Such a small place they are in,
repeating things they've read,
things others have said a thousand times,
cliché's that sound unique to them.
They have no idea how trite they are.
Their painful youth shines.
They see themselves as philosophers
but they only walk over
earth worn down from heavy plodding feet.
I wish for them an epiphany of thought.
the light step of a spry concept,
a fleeting whimsy.
I want to shove poets in their pockets
and chain them up in a museum.
Force them to think,
to look, and eat, and consume
beauty, and art, language,
to be there
when that first true thought really comes.
The color red can make me cry.
I can want to marry Roald Dahl
even though he is dead, and a man.
This haircut was a bad choice.
"I love the power rangers, like the first season."
They talk a while about pop culture,
safer and as equally silly as
their threadbare attempt at philosophy.
"I think the animals will take over one day… that is why I'm moving to Canada. I love Canada."
Perhaps he thinks moose in revolt will be easier to deal with than fish or turtles.
They make me smile.
In the end
I don't mind them behind me.
At least they are trying,
creaking their minds open
and taking baby steps outward
from what they have known
I hope the moose make
when he makes it to Canada.