I Am the Storm

Who am I after the storm

but a channeled whelk broken

on the bank of a distant shore.

And who are you

but the soaring opportunist

who swooped down and plucked me clean.

Who am I after the storm

but a strung out string of seaweed

cast upon an island of unplanned beginnings.

And who are you

but Narcissus gazing at his reflection

in a pool of strategic plans.

I in self-defeat, you in self-enthrallment

so blind to poignant truth.

There are no random acts

in the order of the stars…

only predator and prey

exchanging a lesson.

The Gods have aligned with my thundering rage,

lightning tears through my veins into the purple sky,

10 months of tears form a torrential tantrum

drowning you in a tidal pool of mud and silt.

I thought I had no power; you thought you had it all.

But you are a channeled whelk broken

and I Am the Storm.

Comfortable

It would be so easy
to be instant macaroni and cheese
sitting on the shelf in a neon colored uniform
with dozens of other boxes all the same.
Familiar.
Uncomplicated.
Always in demand.
Ready to heat and eat.
Overly processed by artificially colored instant American values
and covered in Velvetta "cheese food," one molecule away from plastic.
Bait for the busy and the distracted
and those with indiscriminate palettes.
Bland.
Predictable.
False.
Comfortable.
Offering little nourishment but gobbled down without reflection.
What is a box of macaroni and cheese to the Master Chef
but a shameful waste of potential
that leads to a trail of antacids?