I hide my animalistic hides beneath cloth
and behind closed doors.
I judge others for their instincts,
then I shut my bolted metal door and act on my own… in self-loathing.
My idealizations of people
are merely pictures of them without their humanity.
Perfect robots of perfect intellect.
Not a bodily function in sight.
Not a self-serving function in their psyche.
Why is it so?
I admire the ones who tell the boss they’re full of shit.
The ones who embrace the primal drive for sex.
The ones who take my comfortable little safety blanket,
and rip it straight off me.
Show me what it’s like to be you;
your existence in all its dirty, tortuous, beautiful facets.
Does the setting sun illuminating the ocean
look to you as it does to me?
Does it weave together a story
of loosely connected recollections?
Can you sense the frustration
by which every mental act is motivated?
What is it like for you to simply be?
How does your body feel
when you build sturdy, impenetrable walls in an attempt
to protect your own fragile nature?
How does it feel to break them down?
I want to be human
without hating being human.
I want to be human,
without wanting to be God.
I want to sit around a fire on the beach.
I want to laugh at our own ignorance
then cry for our shared condition.
Shed our tears into the fire.
The sound of them sizzling out,
blends with the sound of reggae music.
I want my chest to swell with gratitude,
Then I want to dance with you on the beach.
Overwhelm me with vulnerability.
And I’ll show you my first-person nature
in all its fallible ways.
Be present for the sex and sadness.
For the play of sensuous and subtle
qualities composing our intersubjective dance.
Is there anyway to see it for what it is
without changing what it is?
How to know perfection with a mistaken mind?
How could a mistaken mind know itself to be mistaken?