Marcus Aurelius sits by my bed
trying to train me,
to teach me wisdom.
but somehow, something seems
amiss, too stuffy.
Aurelius is stuck between
a manual for my new
FujiFilm XT30-II camera
and Charles Bukowski,
the Buk, Chinaski,
the pleasures of the damned;
you name it.
I find more wisdom in folly,
more love in whores,
more truth in gambling
than I can glean
from the pages of
meditations
of a sterile life.
the camera is my eye,
and who needs the manual
when we have YouTube?
the Buk is my compass
even if his poetry is just
the hack work of a drunk.
Marcus Aurelius sits by my bed
trying to warn me,
but I don’t listen
to that boring crap.
Stoicism is for the birds.