I Prefer Not To

My last eleven e-mails
were from a string of corps
requesting valuation of
how they do their work.

At first it was amusing

to dish out random scores
but now they've got me wondering,
"What is this all for?"

First of all I paid them.
I assumed that was enough,
but now they've come abegging
for written notes of love.

I fear they won't be happy
until I've scored them all,
but how'd it come to me
to fill the vacuum in their souls?

As I look upon the world
and fail to place the blame,
I return to one solution
to which I'm hooked like crack cocaine.

I will write a poem,
a lovely little poem,
and fill it with my 'wisdom',
and hope it keeps me going.

But this one really means it,
so you'd better pay attention.
I can't be held responsible
for your personal redemption.

Listen up and listen good
'cos I will not say this twice.
The thing you did or stuff you sent,
basically sufficed.

It must have been acceptable,
arriving timely and intact.
If your product had been terrible,
I would've sent it back.

As to excellence or greatness,

thereof I cannot speak.
It seems to be a lofty goal
unless, of course, you've peaked.

Yet I guess your need is shallower
than I have yet supposed.
What you really want is evidence
that you've outperformed your foes.

But I will not play enabler
to your increased market share
so kindly gather up your e-mails,
and GET THE F*CK OUT OF HERE!

Trees in Mist

There is nothing as strikingly alive and conscious and intent and majestic and wise as a tree in mist. I think it's because the mist places the tree on the boundary between the visible and the invisible, and so as you look at it, head tilted right back, mouth hanging open, eyes dry, it is permanently in a state of arrival, and you are experiencing the moment when trees came to our planet for the very first time, and you are wondering if they have come in peace or for mutual benefit or to crush everything they consider a threat into tiny pieces.

I also think it's because the mist makes the air the place where things are really happening. No longer does the world start with the greenness under your feet and stop a couple of metres in the air, while a bunch of other lifeforms take it all too far and keep going up way beyond the level where things are still people. Instead it shows you that there was always much more above the ground than on the ground, and that you should look up, and when you do look up at the world above your head and find it full of dark, mandelbrot-skinned personalities in smoky gowns, you will always feel like a mouse or an insect that has just run into the place where the giants meet.

But no, these are not the giants who will raise a casual foot and with it make your life tiny, dark and short. Nor are they here to validate your self-consideration. They are tactile. You can tell from the way they let you feel their furry flesh from hundreds of metres beneath their vast bodies with your eyes. They are made to be looked at, made to be touched by awe-struck minds. They are proud and particular and unique, and they are not particularly interested in you. I love to see trees in mist because they are beautiful, so beautiful and because they yield to me, unthinkingly, the consolation of my insignificance.