I lob my own entrails
without consequence or accountability,
as if they are profound,
as if they aren’t useless,
as if they are art.

Squandering breath has become
a hobby and a habit.
Each breath measures part
of a poem that will never be born.
Is it birth control or abortion?

Impatience fosters itself.
If I am part of the Buddha’s river,
I am part of balancing the flow,
I am where white meets black,
I am the grey intersection of absolutes.

(top: ianfitter.com; Buddha: balihand.com)