Mother once told me to rub

my left eye if my right eye hurt,

so when I sought peace and quiet

I banged away on my drum set,

cymbals clashing to Stoner Rock

and Gangsta Rap.

When I stopped, breathing slowed,

pressure dropped, and I grew quiet.

Not Nirvana, but as good

as booze or Acapulco Gold

for not sitting like a monk

in the silence of the moment.

Next time,

I’ll embrace gloom

by banging my head

against the nearest wall.