Poem: Maybe

Video

Maybe I'm a lodestone.
Maybe I'm powered by the lightning.
Maybe *I* guide the Wei.
Maybe if I were left as my own devices, all-Weis would face true north.
Maybe what I attract reveals me.

Wonder why my modeling career hasn't taken off yet.

Maybe it's cuz I'm an undiscovered diamond in the rough.
Or maybe I'm the rough. Maybe I'm a cow's tongue questing out for saltlick. Maybe I'm the grippy half of Velcro, seeking something soft to snag. Maybe I'm a city's asphalt skeleton. Maybe I'm coarse-grained sand supplicating skin for sanctuary. Maybe I haven't yet been ground to powder. Maybe I'm bench-pressing pestle up from mortar's bottom, and maybe the pressure's *not* too much to bear. Maybe the ones trying to stamp me out are losing.

Or maybe I'm the one who's stamping.
Maybe there's no Wei to grasp the scale of my senseless inner violence. Maybe I'm the planned extermination of a million joyful stories. Maybe I would savor a people's final choking gasp.

Maybe I'm a genocide.

Wait, no, I don't *wanna* be a genocide!
M-maybe I'm a... a sunrise, distracting everyone with pretty colors as I {exhale} blow out the stars.

Maybe I'm a poet.
No, that definitely not right.
I'm more like a toddler's dirty underwear, soiled because the child using me didn't know how to express themself and I just so happened to be the pair their parents paired them with that morning.
Maybe it'll come out in the wash.

Maybe I should drink more water.

Maybe I'm a urinary catheter sucking piss out from the universe, but
Maybe that piss is hatred.

Maybe I tilt the karmic wheel towards kindness. Maybe there's a beatific Brahmin biding by my shadow. Maybe the aforementioned lightning was divinity's crackling hand, flaring me out to glory.

Or maybe I'm not quite there yet. Maybe I'm the distance between those fingertips on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, the fool in every Buddhist fable, the space between the Surahs.

Maybe that's a disappointment.

Maybe music's *not* the space between the notes.
Maybe I'm diving for pearls of wisdom in Nietzsche's famed abyss.
Maybe I'm drowned by my own pretension.
Maybe I'm on the fast-track out to pasture, maybe I'm Uranium-235, maybe I'm that glow you get post-orgasm, maybe I'm cesium keeping time.
Maybe I'm atlatl after atom-bomb, an anachronistic hymn. Maybe I should watch The Royal Tenebaums. Maybe all I all I all I do is win.

Maybe I should steal other people's art and pass it off as my own.

Maybe I already have.