People constantly recommend
I meditate
and it pisses me off.
When I close my eyes and concentrate
on just breathing,
inhale and exhale,
slow, deep draws of air
I start to wonder how many
countless, full-flavor, cigarettes
I’ve smoked.
How deep that oxygen is really getting.
Should my heart beat this fast
when the space around me
seems so quiet?
I’ll meditate myself
right on into a four am anxiety attack.
It ain’t that hard to do
with the way the world is.
The hippiest shit that works for me
personally 
is digging my toes into the dirt.
Standing barefoot in a patch of moss
in a square of sunshine
filtered by maple leaves and oak.
And I breathe the best I can
and picture the roots reaching up,
wrapping me up, breaking ground
to meet me in the light.