Job

I think I was supposed to live a monastic life

But religion tastes like a tar ball

My parents thought I was going to be a Catholic priest

When I was in high school

Because I did not go on many dates

I could count them on my fingers

Maybe two girls in four years

Neither was any kind of relationship

My best friend was gay

Maybe that confused the matter for them

I didn't know, didn't matter

Either way I wrote

I filled notebooks, thought

Contemplated the whys

Still do

My only real relationship has been with the universe

I was married

Involved with another for four years after

But in my guts

It was always the universe

They, me, part of the same whole

Not puppets, but flow

Drawing me to meditate, dwell, see beyond

Low conversations, core, to the essence

Of what we are

The power of broken hearts and

Conversations in heads on pillows prior to slumber

Sexual release endorphins and tingling God

Asking me you have to be alone

To do what you need to do

Wondering how to accept

This is how I have to be

Like a monk, a priest, an imam, a rabbi

Without the storyline in an elaborating pamphlet

Maybe a bar room and urge to ponder

Wanting interconnection with a soul

Knowing all I got is this damn universe like an elephant

Whispering, you’re not done, you’re not done

Go get back to work

Smalltalk does not apply to your accessible assets

It’s forfeit; to go where you need to go

So grab a pen and scribble notes

Take a book for any gathering

Try to make sense of it; that’s your job

Not the one with the paycheck