purpose displaces me.
it’s when I get all dressed up
with next moment’s potential,
adorning.
I now have bee-lines of attention,
stringing next moments’ causes,
as if into one, one elongated theme.
I am being held at story-point,
with the firm grip of resolution,
determination ablaze,
somewhere within
sweating beads of reason,
feeling impenetrable
as if now justified,
captured by the cuffs
and the shackles of tasks.
of course, I took the drug of intention.
how else did I get into this predicament?
yes, I had ambition
but I enjoyed listlessness with it.
and there were aspirations
but more enjoyed in the dream state.
desire, for me, was like a cigarette break
or a glass of cool water.
if I had wishes for the future,
I enjoyed them laying bed
under the covers
with the warm body of me.
zeroing-in is a foreign task for me.
purpose has too much audience approval,
embedded in the unsaid about it.
I’m watercolors without a canvas,
a figurative breath of fresh air.
purpose has clothes-like hangers,
a note pad, lost pens,
and demonstrated order.
I don’t want to live for results.
I want what next moment comes,
not me with an internal bullhorn
yelling at the outer world for order
to be restored bases on purpose.
order is cruel shoes,
taking me where I don’t really want to go.
purpose falsifies my world into evidence.
my life becomes a line-up
in front of others’ perusal.
weeds are my heroes.
sudden storms save my soul.
I don’t want to get on the purpose-bus
and ride along to wherever.
what happened to tranquil pools
and spontaneous unexpected bobbing fish?
I don’t want my next breath
to become a sigh
or to have a heavy heart
always on the go . . .
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