They asked me, “What is conceit?”
And I said, “Look to your feet.
See the flowers growing there?
Smell that fragrant, floral air?
Now smell this fresh-laid cow dung
and, before you wag your tongue,
realize how the flowers grow
to perfume the winds that blow.
You may disdain such cow shit,
but flowers may grow from it.
You think humble pie smells bad,
but it’s not the worst I’ve had.
Nothing gags me like conceit,
reeking so I cannot eat.”

15 Minutes Of Fame

There is a kind of salt-lipped purity
when drowning where no one can ever see,
plunged in the dark depths of obscurity,
lost among the fathoms—you can be free.
Others flail from up top, astride air-side,
at the surface, searching for the lifeboats,
hoping for dolphins, or sharks, any ride—
desperate enough for flotsam that floats.
But 15 minutes is all drowning takes
to die unseen and unsung down below,
whereas 15 minutes within the wakes
is the most that showboats may ever know.