May 26, 2012

Rumi lied to me.

Out beyond ideas
of wrong doings and right doings
there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.



And she never came.

I went out into the blonde hay field and waited in the sun, my skin baking pleasantly

we drink to die we drink tonight

After awhile I opened the picnic basket

drank the cool white wine

got a headache

fell asleep

and woke up to dream world

and I realized that all the noise out in the city

the hum down the hill of people in bars, trying to fuck one another

is sad and empty and everything you want that you don’t have if and when you have it you won’t want it you’ll just be a part of the hum down the hill the noise in the city thousands of whispers and yells and bellows, all chalk on the black board

I unfriended her on facebook

after she unfriended me in real life

she’s addicted to love

and by love she means elephant gun

take the big king down

pain is a drug

an addiction I’ve never had the misfortune to buy into

I’m alone

I like myself

so instead of the big party tonight

with the same people and a few new people and the chance of meeting someone and yelling and bellowing and whispering, instead of joining the hummers down the hill all trying to fuck one another

I’ll work at building a house of cards

a sand castle on the beach

and if I save one sentient being one minute of unnecessary suffering

I’ll be able to die sad

and wake early, in time to go buy my dog a bunch of local left over dog bones

at the farmers market

my local farmers market

the one that no longer allows dogs

but is happy to take my money.

Who knew it was so easy to be so bitter, and alone, so young?

Soon I will see my black coal heart crushed completely

by the cynicism of selfish wallflowers (with their wedding rings in their pockets)

but, one golden morning, I’ll pull a diamond out of the empty space

where my black coal heart used to be.



A Friday Night Poem.

Waylon Hart Lewis.

May 25th, a perfectly cool blue black breezy evening, 2012.

Boulder, Colorado.


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