There are yardsticks everywhere you look.
The hemline is a measure,
Of the degree of a woman putting herself out.
Alcohol tells man how much
He can glug, without feeling like shit
All over, when the hangover the next morning
Seems like a little nauseating pastime.
You ask yourself what and who
Should measure me. Should a flabby tummy be a measure
Of how unfit I am, or my friendliness,
Should it be an indicator of flirtatious behavior,
Or will I be judged on my carelessness
Of being forthcoming with comments
Which makes me the anti-christ
Of political correctness.
Still I look at the person who is most
Visible and most judged in the world.
A man who combs his larger than life,
Blonde hair, into a comb over,
And presides over an oval office.
He is judged on every careless act,
On every decision, on every utterance
Every imperfection. You wonder
At how much stone you need to be that fellow
Who can only be in compromise,
The weakling in a power suit,
Who twitters out shock tactics and awe
And yet is just a man who is too visible
To hide anywhere, making the world safe, to make people
Bloom to see their potential.
How glad I’m that I’m not the guardian of this planet,
Just a regular Joe, who will
Die a noone, and yet one feeling
That capsizes you, will ensure
You’re an alibi even after you’re dust. The only
Yardstick I aim for is love,
How big, how solitary and how true,
How much did I have of it to shine on one creature.
I will never be the mobile phone I carry
Or the designation at work.
And while the bigwig in the white house
Works on nuclear disarmament
I’m working on nuclear chemistries
And nuclear physics, to make
Fate reel in a moment of nuclear biologies fusing,
To issue a ticket, for the right
To carry a water balloon, nucleated by an intangibility
A medium, aether, a chemistry,
Of a spillover that moistens an inner spongy chamber
With perfect innumerability.