It always takes abundance, to make isolation apparent.
The cafes are crowded, my inbox is full, calendars fill

to the brim then empty like a broken vessel, water flowing
into parched sediment. All the while, I sit with my thoughts.

Morning crows announce the day of my namesake hermit, Prophet [         ],
in choir along the strides of powerlines, enlightened with information,

electric like gossip passed between shrill, church-going women.
Neither ascetic nor electric, today is an exercise in being with.

I meet my mentor for vodka sodas. He’s growing his beard out
and it strikes me that I’m too young and critical

to be a prophet. A vessel of something, not a vassal.
We negotiate the differences between types of emptiness.

His whiskers catch ash from his spliff. Rolling back his shoulders
relaxes the jaguars tattooed across his arms; peacefully he sighs:
                           Yeah, but regardless of what you believe, you’re not nothing.