November 3, 2010

At the supermarket
I watched a man
(fisherman probably)
with one arm
and towel on his stump

walk to the back,
grab a beer from the fridge,
and pull a long swig
from the aluminum lip.

and bow-legged
he observed the checkout lines

that pretended not to observe
him, pausing on a bikini
that swiped a Visa for yogurt.

His thoughts were sun-faded
yet sage as a moonless night,
open to all like the wings
of the eagle tattoo
on his one
good shoulder.

With two balanced sacks
in two healthy arms
I laughed while climbing
the cobblestone to my home,

because the art of not giving a fuck
cannot be purchased or taught,

only earned with the realization
that the world is all too willing
to slow your ascent,

that you’re right
to ignore the rules
in order to strong arm
the universe within.

LOCATION: Lagoa da Conceição, Brazil – In a hammock on my porch watching the sun set over the jungle.

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