Presently, my day is measured out
In tablespoons of coffee,
And entries on the punch-clock.
Input sweat, output bills,
No slack, no overflow–simple.
But…I’m not simple.
It’s just a disaster
When I try to pour my big, messy self
Through the clean little funnel
Of work and society
And all that blah blah blah…
Callouses form
Where I chafe myself against the box
Of a carefully selected
Little pigeon-hole…
They say,
“In time, the stubborn ox
Doth wear the yoke.”
Well fuck that.
Who made the yoke king, anyhow?
One man’s mistake, a millenium ago.
Thanks for all the thorns, Adam.
They don’t make life suck, or anything.
Later on, another Man came along
To take those thorns upon Himself.
I put my hand to the earth
And strive with brambles and weeds,
And boy,
It takes the starch right outta me.
Is the sweat of my brow a consequence
Of the first man?
Or obedience to the second?
A bit of both, I think,
And when I run for the hills
I can’t hear myself think
For all of Creation groaning,
And even the empty prairie sighs
For lack of rain…


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