Written by Paul Moon   

To the blind, deaf mute faithless forests
without a name, without the be, without a core,
how happy is one welling upon fire
earth wind water?

How happy is one who faithfully recites rote prayers
and homilies, and is without grace?

How happy is one who knows season's systems,
and still sows in winters and summers?

How happy is one who weeps and weeps wretchedly
and still admires catastrophes?

How happy is one who creates paintbrushes, with perfect bristles,
and cannot draw, let alone sketch?

How happy is one who can count days and nights
with cigarette butts and smoke
and still reads tea leaves swirling in dark premonitions?

How happy is one who sovereigns,
and still finds new ways to exhale misery's diameters
by mushroom clouds and sorties?

How happy is one who souveniers parts of one's body
with tattos and rings and still takes painkillers?

How happy is one who survives
and still looks to futures as bottles and pills?

How happy is one who imitates God's children,
and still doesn't know differences in formality and formation?

How happy is one who ministers to kings and queens,
and still finds a subset of fiefdoms?

How happy is one who meticulously entreprenueralizes
and sees saints and waifs as cogs and things?

How happy is one who is condemned to creation,
and watches wayward children churned into insolent tyrants?

How happy is one blemished by virgin births,
and still cannot stand so long on fire earth
wind water?

How happy are agile minds quick to excavate and read,
and whose hearts can never bequeath a name
for these aching needs?