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The two-year-old


Against the rocks

Of reality,

The tide of his wants a





Drunk on expectation,

He rages.

Not knowing yet,

That he is actually raging

At life.

In my snide


I quip,

“Today we repeat our lesson

Of the First Noble Truth

Of Suffering.”

Not allowed

By his overlords

To ride his tricycle

Naked in the snow,

He puddles

Sobbing facedown

Into the bosom

Of the earth.

Pachamama receives him

Resentful tears stain

Her skin.

I again

Let him in

On our most human secret

“It doesn't get much different

Than this, my friend.

It pretty much stays the same

From here on out.


This may seem,

On the surface perhaps,

Only mildly helpful.

But it is the fiercest truth I know.

As I watch

The tragic miracle

Of the growth of an ego—

“Mine! More!”

The epitomical “No!”—

I think to ways

In which I, We,

Are exactly the same.

The nights I screech

At god—

My own tantrums,

Swaddled and witnessed.

Every human problem,

Every flavor of pain,

Coming down to thinking:

It is, you are, I am—


Or the grave spiritual offense

Of assuming:

That this is, you are, I am—

Not enough.

Or if one prefers,

The Cliff Notes

Of adult, childish arrogance—

Meet the circumstances of your life,

Meet the truth,

With a no.


The puddle

Collects himself,

The violence of his demands ebbing,

Recessing temporarily.

Just like yours.


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