Moar

I don’t want more moar.

I have just about almost

short of enough.

Those days before were good and 

bad, and about as far as I could go.

If I had tried to do it differently,

I never would have made it this far.

Maybe I should (no!) have regrets.

But somehow I don’t care, besides, it

worked out better because I wasn’t there.

Maybe it’s something Tantra teaches, but

it’s a secret you’ll have to find elsewhere.

It’s not only there, it’s everywhere,

in the bums that ride the rails,

in the painter starving in the attic,

in the boy out banging with his buddies,

in old ladies making soup in the kitchen,

in anyone with a little space between their ears,

not those lost in their agendas,

lost in knowledge, lost in power and control,

forgetting they were ever there.

There is a time for moar, and a time for less.

It’s surfing the waves of phenomena, experience.

We all swim, float or drown in the same ocean.

Blah, blah, blah, isn’t it?

I thought so too.