Don’t listen to 18 year old boys who
read Nietzsche and tell you life is pointless.
I don’t know about god, and I know we are
profligates all; thieves, checkout workers
crooked lawyers— with our wood chip wallpaper,
our TV dinners, our heartburn— but by god, if we didn’t see
horses, bows and hunters in the randomness
of the stars. Know that contempt is a kind
of cowardice. How easy it is to look upon
fellow man as a futile bunch of mortal cells
a fretwork of dark blood, bound for
some modern cancer. I’m bored by your boredom.
Despite it all; (the burning cars on the news,
the evening war, the prison complexes) I still maintain
what is more difficult and far nobler is to love defiantly
even though we live a hairsbreadth from oblivion
from cheap funeral parlour cremation. To pledge
yourself to the world’s newborn o of surprise—
a prolonged o of angel fish, ocean and aurora
the blue song of all that we loved but could not name.

Instructions for a prophet, by paperswallow (via noorthwest)