Awake to Dirty Socks and Anger

Dirty socks and small talk.
Boring, and unavoidable
it seems. Yet
they won’t leave me alone.
I keep coming back to them,
and wishing for gold slippers to dance in
to some place of ecstasy,
like a whirling dervish,
and for words weighted with meaning
that tell me I understand,
that I have arrived.
I tell myself I am worthy
of that, that I am beyond
the mundane. But if dirty socks and small talk is
what’s happening, and I’m trying to leave
to another now, how ready
am I
to be here?
To be content?

And what of those moments when
lust or anger drive me
to hurt others?
The moments I regret and can’t reconcile
with the spiritual person I know
I am.
Am I
when I attack?
When I cower?
Can I be with me
when I draw fear or shame from
me or another?
Can I pay attention no matter
how ugly or aggressive I am?
Can I own that and return to
my true nature?
And be OK
with mucking and thrashing around,
again and again,
until I die?

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