Meditation

Sometimes just consider my rage a meditation:

my agitation, anger, impatience, 

all sentiments with apparent targets,

all movements needing an external cause, 

all responses to something, 

but maybe whatever was there has passed

long ago. Perhaps

there never was anything there to start with,

leaving you with only whatever theory

serves to explain a wrath

that requires explanation, 

as far as you are concerned. 

Maybe the rage is just another kind of silence, 

a kind that I can hear in a noisy world. 

Maybe it is the only unmechanical sound

I can hear among the door slams and car horns

and the endless elaborate embellishment 

of stupidity and selfishness 

we collectively celebrate and value. 

Maybe rage is the only peace available to me.