Suddenly the room is small

and it is shrinking

and I am big big big

and I am growing

and their eyes are wide

and the shouting is deafening

and in my big big big mind

I am small

and I am shrinking

and he is big big big

and he is growing

and his eyes are wide

and his shouting is deafening

and with my small small small body

I run away and cower

and I am a coward

and I am a coward and a child

and I am a coward and a child and I am lost

and I am letting go of myself

Of life’s rhythms

and themes, remains the

undulating song of the waves and the

melody of an old ukulele strummed

softly on the gentle sands

of the beach.

The sun is setting

slowly, stealing the warmth

from the air and plucking stars into

the sky in harmonious patterns. And as

the waking moon rushes the seas, see the c

chord ring along the old strings, singing

sweetly along the sandy seam

between the ocean and

land of tomorrow.

Make even strums

per chord, repeat them, calm

like the waves gracing the shore

as a timed and ever-present beat

One… Two… Three… Four…

next chord, move smoothly,

embrace the transition.

The sky grows

ever darker and time

goes on, each second kisses

me goodbye and watches as I

age, messing up a note when tactical

fingers miss their cue on the fret.

Keep playing, keep going,

the melody doesn’t

stop.

The strings loosen

quickly; they need to be

retuned again, and the slowly flattening

notes laugh alongside me when I finally accept

the possibility that when the sun

whispers its last goodnight,

and the tide dances in,

It may be

time to replace the

old ukelele.

Sunny and silly,

And funny and warm,

And hugging and loving,

And singing and burning,

And scathing and hurting,

And angry and rancid,

And yelling and sleeping,

And sleep, sound asleep.

Think happy thoughts!

The mind can be controlled

and contained

with happy thoughts.

Think not about the sadness

Or the vice-like grip it has

all down your esophagus

and your stomach.

Think happy thoughts!

Think not about the constant

lessening of space

and how trapped

you are, as an individual

and as an entity,

Where, once the peaceful years

of childhood run dry

its work on Monday,

work on Tuesday,

work on Wednesday,

work of Thursday,

work on Friday,

and then two days off

but, who are we kidding

you’ll work then too!

Think happy thoughts!

Think not about

capitalism and the downfall

of humanity hitting you

with its unethically produced

car that’s pumping evil

into the air, helping to boil

the planet and its sad

little people alive.

Think happy thoughts!

Think not about the weight

of love and the loneliness

that’s bred when we refuse

to teach our children

how to think

and talk and be friendly.

Think happy—

Think not about death.

Happy

Think not about history.

Happy

Think not about the universe,

or what was there before it.

Think happy thoughts,

Only,

ever,

forever.

Happy

thoughts.

Who breathes the last breath

when all the world’s

oxygen has depleted? people clawing

and tearing at each other’s

throats, hoping to spare themselves

and damn the rest

to unimaginable death; sharp,

nailed fingers dig trenches

into the skin, carving it

all the way down the throat and chest

to sever the stomach

which was starving

and needy

and sad.

With big bright billboards advertising

trips to mars, the earthlings riot

and rip at the fabric of reality,

chanting down with the rich,

down with the sober,

down with the anyman

who betrayed his sons

and grandsons

to swaddle the beards and bellies

of the wealthy as they sacrifice

their kin.

The paint on the walls peels

and stings the eyes of those left

alive to see, and the nostrils

of those left to sense

the failing of the world, sour,

and rancid, and sticking

to the skin, tucking deep into the pores

like misery and defeat.

Cry why the world

Why; the world

Why abandon us in a cascading hurricane

of fear and hunger

and loneliness,

where the friends who claim to be

my brothers cry for their fathers,

the fathers who killed their mothers

and hung their hosiery

on telephone wires

so that we could mourn them.

Mourn the mothers

Mourn the world

Mourn the part we played

in our own downfall

Because it must have been us,

Why else

would we die in piles?