Even beat poets the most intrepid
cower at the challenge of relentless
mediocrity:
life minus a fast car, a wild bop record,
a new conquest, a new vein.

Exalting the muddled middle is a
demaning task, one that would
wilt the best-trained bonzai.

Rather than stand for something,
rather than stand for self,
most crouch,
take cover,
most lives wane like moonlight.

Can you put a finger on why?
For the dinosaurs, finger the asteroid;
for the faithful, finger your savior;
finger age for the few who found their fate;
but for the rest, the culprit is clear,
Ladiezzzzz and gentlemen . . .
the force that finishes life:
mediocrity.