Tabula Rasa Babies

We first are blank page Tabula Rasa babies
written on by society and culture.
When critical reflection comes
with a snap of brain halves colliding
look back on those pages
to see what was written in them by those giant hands
and start to write,
in your own faltering scrawl,
the minuscule existence that is actually yours.

Examine the standards that have been set for you
for the first time
in new birth-purity
and think to yourself
(for you can never address society directly except by living)
fuck houses
and cars
and perfectwife wet dreams
and picket fence fantasy.
You do not need to set standards for yourself,
only to meet invisible ones
hiding in dark corners of yourself
as you do
and live
blind stumbling through tiny worlds
no bigger than eyesight.

You need other people and
you don’t need other people.
You need to be understood and
you don’t need to be understood.
When solitude turns to itchy lonesomeness
go talk and laugh and scratch
but love solitude
until you need it
for it is one of the only sure truths of conscious existence
…or is it?

Those curious stares mean no harm
and mean harm
and mean nothing.
Acquaintances are unavoidable,
give being-acknowledging nods
and little halloos
and talk about stupid nothing with them
until you feel like crying and running.
Then run politely with a, “see you round”
over the shoulder.

Nice is not an implement,
kind is not a tool,
and when you see someone using them
like forks and knives
then go somewhere else;
you don’t need to know their motives
except that they have some
and they may try to eat you.