Zarathustra Smoked Grass

Papa Would Be Proud

I toast to a french roast
of arabica as night falls,
right around midnight

I struggle with that should or should not,
I wrestle a storm cloud,
perhaps I can break it

all I have is a little bit of twine
to rope it 

The shepherded life
It’s honestly quite the monolith to chip at
or go around,
or climb over

unless it’s not
and you can spend all your time solving a crossword puzzle
at the scintillating edge
of your eight-limbed being

Of course, I don’t.

But I will.