The Fixer

The Fixer



You’re asking God to give to you, or
Buddha be his name,
Gaia hers; they’re all the same -

“May I have what I want,” you say,
Instead of the small wondering,
What you might ought to have.

You could definitely win
A material game
Or one of feeling right, O Ethical You.

You might manipulate the tiny surrounding space,
Quietly vibrate the life around you,
Take humility lessons yourself and then,

Someday smart,
Learn ’em, durn ’em,
The folks you know.

You could take up your time here
At alchemy, at
Any change, positive growth,

Manifest things
You think
We need.

You’re asking permission
To know the morality
Of having your way with

Existence.

Do yourself a favor, please.
Don’t chant yet. Don’t pray. Don’t draw down stuff,
Helpful objects or even goodwill.

Don’t look for meaning,
An answer,
Or for ease.

First, find that
Biggest
Hole of a place

Where a tiny new seed
Of an idea
Might grow.

Raise the thought honestly,
Fully commit to it, live it completely,
As evil as it will seem,

That you

Are

Worthless.

Useless.

Pointless.

Truly.

You.

Are.

Nothing.

Dig out your gaping, earthy, black, hollow space
And, in an instant,
A trillion ready, promising, eager, hungry choices will congregate,

A darkening mass will flock and fly like bats
To your head
And your writhing stomach.

You’ll be, in your constant, ultimate weakness,
A mute autistic,
Prone upon bare ground, laid-out, rocking,

Clutching your body for dear life,
That empty, invisible, fleshy container
That holds "you."

You either will end up eternally shaking,
A junkie to something, to any small item that might taste slightly sweet,
Decaying and soon dead, or

You will
Make
Yourself.

You’ll prove
Something simple to
Whoever looks to you:

You can

Survive

The deepest

Lack.

You will know
The
Truth -

What is fair
And real
And right,

And feel

Every

One.

For now,
My so easily
Frustrated friend,

You

Are too

Shallow.





by Coke Brown Jr. -
as posted on Coke's Croaks -
www.cokescroaks.com