first off, i know They are there.
They’ve always been there,
living out closed-door lives
hidden behind strong walls
reflecting some inner turmoil.
doped to the gills,
or drunk at 11 in the morning,
or lost in philosophy or religion;
maybe immersed in some desperate
study of everything that should be there,
but ain’t.

last prayers fade with the setting sun,
another night to wait for
positive word to come. Step outside
the cabin and come out to see if They
are there, ready to talk.

me and They ain’t never met,
it’ll probably never happen.
the people i’m looking for
make themselves as hard to find
as I do. nothing personal,
just how its gotta be while
the shitshow plays on
to an audience facing the
wrong direction.
none of us can see a thing;
making it easier not to be seen.

nobody has to believe a damn thing;
why make it any different
than the way things used to be?
Ask around; I ain’t hurting anyone
anymore than myself.
doesn’t fair count for anything?

fucked up to keep looking, every
so often finding a glimmer
of They but it ain’t the real thing,
guess it’s a lot to ask for a tiger
to shirk his hide-out,
come out to talk about metaphysics
with a total stranger. fucked up
to keep looking, They ain’t
gonna be there.

Gratefully dedicated to Fred Eaglesmith (specifically his album “Tinderbox” and the autobiography of Bryan Magee titled “Confessions of a Philosopher”. The only thing that matters is Poetry and Philosophy. Everything else is just details.

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