Self-Made Man

Self-Made Man
Wolf with Cub

I was raised by wolves who gave me just enough to survive.
I am the uber autodidact:
I built the school where I taught myself
economics, built a factory—and the roads
leading to the factory—where I alone
made my fortune. I am a self-made man.

When my factory caught fire, I put it out myself.
I hire the police that protect my home from the hordes
that would tax me: I need nothing from the State, and so
give nothing to the State.

After I die, my employees, and the countless
recipients of my charity,
will bemoan that they aren’t also self-made;
they will accept their poverty and continue to work for
and admire my son,
whom I have raised like a wolf to be a self-made man,
to carry on my legacy.

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poetry

Diary

Ages ago I kept a diary in a hand legible to
none but me. I read it on my knees as just-fallen

rain clings to pinecones like wet feathers,
the evening slips into its velvet gown,

and starlight pitter-patters on my head
like drops of gallium. I am thankful

the day is dying, for I have forgotten how
to live. Who wrote those words belongs

to an empire that collapsed under its
own grandiose weight, its high priest

· 1 min read
poetry

Enlightenment

I was seventeen when I read Alan Watts’ The Way of Zen
a couple pages at a time, putting down the book to observe
sunset drape itself over my mind, falling asleep thinking
of not thinking, hearing a flock of birds and imagining myself
flapping against the sky and recalling that I am sky. Once,
the book well-thumbed and creased and read twice over,
I felt an ant crawl the length of my arm like a nagging
sense that

· 1 min read
poetry

Foul Weather Friend

I am a foul weather friend, dear poetry.
I have paid you no mind when spring rains
wash clean the marble statues of gods
and a cheery sun
reads aloud your sweet inscriptions,
nor when awed children skip through museums,
nor accordion-song fills the subway,
nor a stranger does another stranger
a kindness,
nor blueberries are so ripe they bleed sugar,
nor velvet chocolate cake knocks you dizzy with love,
nor, after making love, my wife’s perfume
clings

· 1 min read