There are paths across this violent planet
I’d like to see but can only find when
terrified and confused and alone,
carried across by a fancy or ego
or incompetence otherwise impossible to achieve
while on my best behavior.
Why? Blame the soul.
The thing about souls
is that sometimes they choose
loneliness or vanity or ambition
the way frigates choose the open water.
They're the moral organization of chaos;
the impractical part of us
whose identity can never be
modified, shaved down, faked,
carrying us onward even when hobbled,
staying broken even when fixed,
bearing weights and loves and grudges forever.
And the soul is there
the way mistakes are always there,
inhabiting every atom
of our imperfectible little lives,
always emerging unbidden,
sometimes on a Tuesday,
sometimes when you’re standing along the curb
with the paper and a sandwich,
standing there thinking about a commercial and
staring at a girl across the street like an idiot,
and the soul either hits you or you just kind of remember
that not every single day
is the most meaningful day of your life,
so please god
do not let this be the day
I get hit by a fucking car.
And there it comes,
that animal velocity in us,
breaking our bodies across a dozen muscles
to funnel this tempest of a life
into a meaning we’d never intended
with a force we’d never fathomed,
and we are insane for this, no?
and murderous, and in love,
all us gods,
gods all and monsters.