Poem: Yoga Lesson
would be to presume that the threshold of excellence you’ve artificially set —
what does and doesn’t qualify for literature art excellent worthiness –
earned along the way the organic certification, the one we all hope
we’re worth. In fact, my dear, my darling, my [insert pet name here],
the oracles have spoken and they say you’re flimfloozled.
And also mildly embruvulated!
Is it only Hollywood People who do yoga to relieve their suffering and pain,
and to exercise in stretchy pants?
Is it only bitter pedants who haven’t yet learned “show, don’t tell”
works wonderfully when delivering admonitory rants?
burrowing through the seams, into the revelation spot,
ensconcing yourself there, building a tent, settling in for the long
long night of moral rot.
Sociable social science and sociology experiments
prove what you thought they would prove.
The solution simply appeared, manifested it’s been said
just as it’s been said that every random occurrence
can be comfortably read as a message from the universe.
An exhortation, a plea. An invitation to see.
Like the God of the apostles, this universe must concern itself
with telling, not showing.