This pulse is threefold All findings are gold

What do you see when you look At me what is it I’m no more than the present, than the sound of my shoes, than the change I didn’t take No less than the dirt on my knees and the baths in the sink; Fearless or wrapped in a towel Weapons are for those who carry them and knowledge is for those in search Of the important things, like, Learning to pick yourself back up again, even if it’s just to fix the pillows Or, Learning to count to ten in a dead language Or, Being objective when it suits you most Weapons are for those who use them and knowledge is for those in search Of more knowledge, or the means to sell it, or a library, or a book, a pamphlet, A single page, crumpled and stained but the words are still clinging on, With hope for a reprint someday Somebody’s prized recipe Immortality depends on an ink cartridge I took a wrong turn in a daydream and ended up in a room full of mirrors, With a bunch of other assholes who wouldn’t shut up And then a stranger with my name asked me what I’m worth Boldly, unapologetically, genuine I couldn’t craft a response but I thought about it for a minute Worth ten dollars an hour Ten cents for some sheet music with scribbles, Which are mostly just lines, or question marks, Crossed out only to be rewritten Legibility doesn’t denote value Worth the free gig, worth the exposure (synonymous with bright lights) Worth the time spent divided by hours slept to the power of Two bowls and some expensive lentils (synonymous with bright lights) Worth the friends I can help without ignoring the ones I couldn’t, Worth my distaste for work and my longing for nothingness, Worth all my biases and hatred and stupid lines and worthless remarks, Bouncing around until they mean something, or leave