Soon as I was expelled, I knew I’d be coolly alone.
A woman wailed. There was blood. Time to be drolly alone.
In the dense dark woods of family, suffocating creepers
and dinner, I whacked a way to be lovingly alone.
Cover tracks! A forwarding address can badly monkey
with even modest plans to be strategically alone.
When they ask You happy? my advice more or less grunt Yeah.
There’s music written for being romantically alone.
I’ve studied rest and motion, and mothers, plus both oceans.
It’s pure natural that I’m centrifugally alone.
Point being, don’t get stuck fussing over nothing. It’s no
small matter being infinitesimally alone.
People overestimate people, underestimate
thoughts. You get busy being transcendentally alone.
Keep your shades down, your lamps low, and nosy cowards will talk:
That strange feller yonder…he’s suicidally alone.
The math’s on my side. Taking one away from any group
adds back for everyone. We’re all communally alone.
On the crowded train, skid road logging camp, or river pig
reunion—surrounded—I’m miraculously alone.
Don’t let crowds fool you. I see ’em coming, with their torches,
speeches and receipts. Bull. We’re molecularly alone.
Authoring desire lines, each hard-earned sole impresses.
A light groove comes when you take steps, uncannily alone.
It’s always threatening to fess up that solitude’s a blast—
there’s plenty of juice and well-enough joy fully alone.