From a common sunrise we began.
By noon we no longer remember
the crawling from the beginning
And at sunset the pace has become
and excited action; much like the
gliding of a Raven as the search
for the deepest midnight calls to
the very structure of our souls and
in that darkest hour we feel what
we’ll discover and it’s because of this
that there’s no stopping the next
We live in a world
where we look at our mortality
rates as victims.
We are the mortality
and we are the victim.
We do our best to understand
where we fit into each round hole.
As if carnage from the heavens
scrapes its teeth at the edges
of our wars; and all the spillage
frees the smallest of fractions
while we struggle to dig
half a hole.
Death is the sin of gravity-
Craving, gravity can’t touch death,
and all the paper flies
see all the fly like things.
Stretch your societal deprivation,
or not, and be that sunken structure.
Doesn’t much matter while what’s happened,
happened, and it’ll be next to you, or without.
The Trinity has a pulse.
We crossed state lines
to pick up our new grill
I sat in my truck,
in the parking lot at Lowe’s,
and watched as men and
women entered the adult playground
Most wore masks, some practiced
I got the text from Megan
telling me to pull the truck up front
I pictured her at the register wearing
her black face mask
talking with a cashier who also wore
a face mask and who stood behind a plastic shield
I pulled the truck up front, put it in park,
and looked at my own ninja mask.
A couple walked passed my truck
the man nodded as I slipped on my mask
The grill is somewhat large, and slightly heavy-
“I don’t know if I can lift this, my back is a bit off.”
Just as Megan had said that, an older gentleman
entering Lowe’s heard and asked if we needed a hand.
He helped me lift the grill onto the tailgate
he was plenty helpful and plenty nice
He wore no mask
He stood plenty close
and gave me a fine look of a child
Reality is a good place, really
Crossing state lines, on a back road
leading into Maine,
stood a massive LED sign on wheels
“All those entering Maine must
quarantine for fourteen days.”
The Iliad of silence gasps for air
as we peer through collected
prisms of sight- hoping to rise
a morning with more purpose
than that which drives eyes
to view the next without.
Sometimes I drink to warn off the nerves
And that’s OK
No matter what people think
There’s a dog in the sky
I wonder what he’s doing up there
looks friendlier than a man down here
walking on the cement,
within reach of a wooded path,
narrowing thought into splinters to speak
of what is and what should be, while his slippers
shed off pebbles entering his footings
this beer is just nice enough to have another
and to continue on about the man in slippers
who know’s everything about how to live
and how not to drink
Dog is leaving now
head removed itself
I think many of us want to fight in a great battle;
It’s possible we’ve already performed our duty
and won’t understand until the very end of everything.
Door knobs do twist in an untwisting way
while cracks of the Head shadows
a shame walking down the road
alone, head down, depression
Sometimes a book
is somebody else’s
whispers they never
thought would be heard.
Expect a large, “Hello,” from the sky today. That’s how it is. How it works. There’s no one person who knows other than the self, wishing to see what’s given from a simple gust of wind; lifting the ever floating leaf, closer to its destination, just beyond the reach of your outstretched arms as you look above to receive the day’s welcome.