A Little Blue Ball, Spinning

We are in the middle of nowhere,

spinning in space

on a little blue ball

upon which every molecule

in your body will perish.

And you care that you've chipped a nail,

take offense that you've been labeled.

How long will these things endure

before realizing none of it matters?

The sun will continue to shine

long after you're dead,

and the dust you shall become

will be swept away.

If your consciousness survives death,

will it really care that you won a contest,

were ghosted by a supposed friend?

How long will these loud parts

of you worry and fret while

the Self just wants to swim or dance?

.

It’s so damn cold in this self-created vacuum.

Might I suggest to myself that time takes ruthless time?

I have a secret to share with you: I see nothing instead of something.

Yes, no thing for the self-absorption of a man whose boyhood was spent

vacuuming unmet needs.

By the way, is borderline personality disorder a reason for not even

connecting with animals? I’ve never been diagnosed but who really knows?

I’ve been contemplating wings lately — angels and birds. I dislike birds.

Dissatisfaction with god’s satisfaction mirrors me in shards.

But could you stay with me awhile?

I’ll prove I can connect.

In the afterglow of sadness, She said every thing is no thing.

So begins another goddamn epilogue.