Saturday, March 30, 2013

Sunday, March 17, 2013


If: in this massive, infinite universe (more interconnected than cursive, than the metaphors we've yet to invent or witness the gravity of)
we are conscious--then how divine, how special.

Is not life to be enjoyed? Savored? Not hedonistically--that would be extreme waste--but delicately, with study, gratitude and perspective.

We Are: conscious, when no other animal seems to speak, nor do they paint, erect pyramids, craft plays or solder iron.

Though man does. Though I am free to witness it, engage with it, create it all my own.
Such a waste to worry, to consume trends, ingest the media, while all around us groundwater absorbs chemicals, icebergs melt, and man tortures man. In the middle path, flowers bloom, words exchange, wisdom grows and the tinkling of birdsong carries through the sky.  

Sunday, March 10, 2013

the Tenth

I watched him as he rounded the corner, wiping the edges of his eyes as if dust had settled in the crevices instead of salty water. He flicked the tears like lint, disregarding the weight, its salinity and reflection. His sweater bagged at the shoulders; the plastic hanger in his closet at home at fault for stretching the thin-weave cotton that failed to keep the chill of the wind away at night. The edges of his mind dragged too, weighed down with the worries of those who habitually check their bank accounts online, pray silently as they approach the mailbox hoping for a check to have arrived, some sustenance.