Marlboro Man

I don’t need a single helping hand.

My clan built success on nothing but hard work and determination.

I will produce this masterpiece myself!

the Marlboro man declares, folding his arms like a stubborn baby.

Infant means without words, mirroring his solo struggle.

Banging the knobs on the motherboard,

screeching negative feedback and a blue error screen,

he pounds another energy drink,

pulls close the curtains,

and hides away in his own dark, twisted fantasy.

Narrowing his vision until his world is composed of 0s and 1s:

to fail or not to fail.

Flipping through software manuals,

troubleshooting himself in the foot

his iterations are no use.

Flickers of incompetence make his blood boil.

Feeling the stained walls close in around him,

he curses at the motherboard for stunting his dreams.

Not knowing the monster is not echoes of failure,

but his imprisonment in solitary confinement,

his attachment to autonomy and self-reliance

at the expense of everything else.

He forgets his ancestors traversed storms

on a crew-filled ship: kneeling before the weather,

guided by the tides, fed by Bubbie’s pickles—

Gifts are born interdependently, nourished by many.

Immigrating to another state takes patience—

control must be surrendered and pride renounced.

When push comes to shove,

the Ubermensch must bow to his maker and send smoke signals.

Help is only found with curious eyes and open ears.

The monster is an inability to humble oneself before great challenges.

Connect as the mycelium do as they embrace, support, and feed

creativity, the most wonderful tree.