The man with the chrysanthemum on his head walks up and down the aisle. Do I look like that, I wonder to myself? Have I taken personal style to the point of caricature? What is the boundary by which the embarrassment is kept at bay? Is there a point at which I can overcome who I present myself as, and represent the best of who I can be? Who I might be if only I can manage not to get carried away by impressionism? I am given this dwelling and it suits me quite well, when I treat it as a temple and not simply as a shrine.
Do without some things not everything
You and I are more alike than different
Yet we cannot get along
Though I ponder why this surprises me so.
A cloud and a watermelon are 98 % the same
And no one would mistake them in a crowd
Or expect them to be companionable
Except in the way of two things existing in the universe.
My expectation of liking you for our similarities
Is set up by my fear that I don’t like myself
But the joke is on me.
My dislike of you is not a reflection
Of anything but time and space
My friends are the people who like me
Not necessarily the ones who are like me.
The president didn’t like broccoli
Without slurring its good name
And I can dislike you
Without inferring you are a vegetable