Gravity is Love

A Better Man

2011-09-14T08:42:00.000-04:00

Can a better man say no?
Does he empty himself to show affection?
Does he bend at every whim?
Who drives the better man?

A better man knows his lover.
A better man follows his passion.
A better man plants romance.
A better man is "show", not "tell".

Deep in the feet stands the better man.
A better man's touch scatters all doubt.
The tip of a finger opens better man's door.
A better man is who i want to be.

Cake

2011-08-29T21:59:00.005-04:00

In the closet, under the stairs, in the fridge, on the shelf, in the drawer, was a shiny wax box. In the box was a cake made of yellow covered with frosting and painted with flowers. Under the frosting was the happiest cake you ever knew. It sang and cooed the prettiest song under it's frosted blanket, deep in its box, tucked in its drawer, high on its shelf, deep in the fridge, behind the cushioned seal door, in the closet, under the stairs. No one knew how happy it was. No one could hear its song.

Then, one day, someone came into the closet and opened the fridge, slipped open the drawer, pulled out the box from the shelf. They opened the box and pulled out the cake covered in frosting. They stabbed it with candles and set fire to the tips. The candles dripped wax on the frosting while voices sang in joy and the cake was cut. It was split down the middle and columned and rowed. After it's body was chopped and put on plates and carried out to tables under a bright sun. Forks were jabbed into each of its parts. Teeth sunk deep into the yellow flesh that once sang. Tongues rolled and mushed the cake into tiny balls that rolled down the throats and into dark little bellies of boys and girls. Deep in the dark, the yellow cake was happy again and sang a beautiful song.

When love touches me

2011-08-22T18:58:00.010-04:00

When love touches me.
A butterfly tickles my finger.
A creek whispers my name.
A trout winks under a crystal curtain.
Love fills my cave and I lay drowning.
My last sorrows gasping for air.
My old self becomes an empty cicada.
As my fingers make camp in the valley of your spine.
Gone are all the hungry coyotes.
This fire cracks for you and me.
As sparks launch up into the milky way.
Love, please don't let me go.

When knees fall

2011-07-23T19:30:00.011-04:00

When knees touch the ground,
the sacred always listen.
Knees never fall in trivia.
Always a page folded from our story.
A high wrinkle in a silky life.
A mountain range worth a peak from heaven.
God watches that moment,
on our knees.
Knees ground when we fail.
They sink as we weep.
They fold when we pray.
They burrow when we give up.
But all is not from the dark.
On our knees we plant a tree.
From our knees we learn to walk.
And on our knees we promise forever.

Hands-free

2010-12-14T19:31:00.008-05:00

With my hands free.
Words drip from a pen.
Letters vowel at the moon.
I live between these fingers.
Where touch is a circuit.
The energy of mood.
If i were all thumbs.
I'd hitchhike across the sea.
Our pinkies swear.
Rings engage.
Inside a church.
Under this steeple.
Nestled in the palms.
Counting the digits.
Ten, the perfect number.

The Parade

2010-03-18T19:15:00.037-04:00

Always the fox reaching for the grape.
A box of snapshots from a small town parade.
See the smiles perched in the carriage?
Under furry blankets, waving at strangers.
Let's hitch our wagon to enthusiasm's horse.
We don't need a reason to dangle our feet.
Smiles from a crowd make a lovely breeze.
Here, i give you this perfect grass saber.
Squeeze it taunt, between the thumbs,
Blow your kiss firmly.
The sound zaps storm clouds from miles away.
See the eyes of the deep horse watching?
He can feel what saddles our mind.
Let's think him a tale of love-dipped happy.
He'll carry us proudly in this wonderful parade.
Up ahead, in the center, a town hall is waiting.
Hunkered in time and flanked by worn benches.
Giant oaks shake hands and host meetings.
Where busy squirrels pass amendments,
and birds busk for change.

The rib's cage

2010-03-18T14:39:00.034-04:00

There you pine, jailed in your ribcage.
Little plastic army men keeping you at bay.
Turnstiles click, at each year's passing.
Shiny chalk pieces marking the days.
Fingers grasping a flimsy metal tray rim.
Every season reduced to gruel on a spoon.
Creamed corn, potato, cherries jubilee.
The warden's face is so familiar.
Sulking in your pitiful hot spring.
You a shiny cipher, hiding the solution.
A dangling wind chime, stuffed mute with cotton.
Every window scraped clean but painted shut.
Lounging on hands, gazing across your life's field.
And the hungry wolves you leave to tending your sheep.

one

2010-03-17T21:23:00.047-04:00

There is this 'other' side of things.
I repeated to myself intentionally.
The second time spoken in the opposite direction.
Our shadow shines bright in the other of places.
Our frowns turn joyful across a mirror's divide.
Confusion turns crystal behind the fabled door.
Sadness migrates to tickle a belly.
Fear sprouts a sunflower tending to bees' children.
And as thunder crouches,
behind the veil,
rainbows are waxing.
I suppose,
when juxtaposed,
it all equals one.

Magic Stick

2010-03-16T22:19:00.009-04:00

Here's a magic stick i found powered by imagination. Use it quickly to take over the world, rescue a damsel, or stop evil ninjas. It's shaped like a seven stretched high to the heavens. It's the perfect ray gun with a thumb hole for a trigger. There's a scope if you need it, though your aim is impeccable. Your belt-loop is the holster and you cock it like this. These acorns are smoke bombs and this wood-chip is a walkie-talkie. I'll be in the kitchen guarding our ship. As you travel through time it's also a musket. If you turn it backwards, a magic wand is revealed. It's long enough for a sword and in a pinch, a javelin. Use it for truth, honor, and justice. Remember, don't cherish the stick, but the dreams that wield it. It's something you'll want for the rest of your life.

Passion's Beam

2010-03-14T09:07:00.026-04:00

"Where are you?" I ask myself waiting patiently. Here i am with these plans of adventure. Toes flex and fidget at the hunch of missing you. I made us a picnic, a red apple and gouda. We can divvy it up with the knife you saw crowning in the dirt. Remember that day? I was hot and you were beaming. We chuckled in the stream as we jumped rock and boulder. Everywhere we looked I saw your reflection. I needed you that day. I always need you. You are my reason to rise from my pillow. When you leave i collapse and dream of your pictures. I am your helpless child, your suckling infant. You show me my shadow and remind me i am seen. On closing my eyes i can feel your light's whisper. My eyelids no match for your mighty embrace. Burn through this fog that lays thick between us. Let me bask in your glory and walk in your way. I know you are there, but wonder if you hear me. I love you Sun! Please come out and play.

The excavation

2010-03-13T17:13:00.047-05:00

Her dreams were buried deep, below her proud standing. Here she was, in the high of day's noon. Sweat fell like raindrops from a broken gutter. The desert dust keeping her eyes dry and clean. A space-aged shovel clanked on a boulder. It fell with the pack it clung to from home. Her tools spilled loose from the green army denim. She unwrapped a journal zipped safely in plastic. Pushing rubber buttons on the trusty Magellan, "beep, beep" came the assurance she rarely required. This is where history would merge with the present. Knee-pads inched their way over giant boots with effort. She had learned long ago the little things made the difference. She found her spot in this dry dusty nowhere. Raising her shovel high like some temple queen, she plunged her dagger deep into the earth. Bleeding rubble came spewing as she stabbed at her victim. She grunted in rhythm as the rocks crumbled surrender. Hours passed gently like a ten-speed geared easy. Her water was mental as she drank from the thought. Clank was the sound that would quench these lips open. She'd stop on the moment and bask in its time. By sunset she'd reach it, and pull loose her bounty. The dusty handle would squeak joyfully from attention. At that moment, she'd cross her legs and wipe her brow. She'd be sure and cherish the big reveal. She'd brush clean the container like a rescued box turtle. Inside, in the dark, waiting for the light. Her secret would shine again.

She told me frankly

2010-03-06T23:45:00.044-05:00

She told me frankly that we were nothing special. My youth recalls the feeling as I paced through the streets. Gut-struck by the punch deep and low in the belly. My breath shattered into a million tiny pieces. My back falls to its knees searching for the beat. Drowning in surprise, the heart keeps gasping. Eyes claw their way up on the raft of belief. Now stranded on this sparse island. Vultures circle my hope laying fetal and panting. My destiny revealed in a feeble lonesome shadow. It stretches across the dunes as the sun slips away. In the dusking quiet i notice the moon has her company. Up there, deep in her mood. She reflects a lover's burning passion. Pools of tranquility look down on me with pity. Sometimes i notice the stars don't twinkle. They pulse an S.O.S. across the thick dark sky. In this cold, in this wind, in these bones, I am my hermit. I wrap my fish in the news of a family. I spark my tinder from a message in a bottle. I paint my cheeks with the ashes of our fire. It burned so bright, but so does my drumming. Through my nose. Out my mouth. No need for pinching. Alive and feasting on regret's bloody throat. Healing is overrated. Scars are trophies. Memories are ribbons. Your's is velvet blue with a giant gold medallion. Life should be so very proud of me.

Carnivore

2010-01-28T13:33:00.009-05:00

Gather around me oh blessed creatures
i wish to eat you one by one
My eyes are the fork i use to pluck you
My ears slit your throat and stab in the chest
Your blood is my gravy that beats deep inside me
Your skin is my trophy your bones to my drum
I suckle the cobalt that winks on your feathers
I marvel the whispers that creak from your beak
I nuzzle the talons and gnaw on your skullcap
My teeth are stained with the fat from your lips

The color of winter

2010-01-12T08:14:00.022-05:00

Winter touches me. I feel her snow between my fingers. The air of winter is always listening. Its shiny crystals carry our words like some heraldic message. Even the sun can hear the sermon reflected in its light. Lungs paint stories like chimney smoke from the heart. All is written in the winter with a giant charcoal pencil. White, so thick with color, like a cardinal in the snow. Icicles drip from rooftops, their pipes a grand cathedral. The forest floor remembers, each footstep is not forgotten. Winter knows every moment, every breath, every color, every drop. When she tilts, it all matters!

How vivid was this confidence

2009-06-16T08:05:00.034-04:00

How vivid was this confidence that brought you up this mountain. So high we stand together, faces cradled in the wind. Fearless hope keeps your wondrous eyes from peeking. Vaulted more by a simple press of tiptoes from the edge. A giant valley of doubt lays crumpled far below us. We come from the bottom. Baptized in her river. Time-and-again our squishy boots have squeaked their way home. For years the spine rested in the shape of a question. Now with nerves untwisted, we form a proud exclamation. Here, drink love's water, from my roots to your branches. Under our tree, we cast this blanket. Nibbling on the fruit of our dreams. Together, up here, among the raptors, where the air feels its purpose.

Up, Up and Away

2009-05-31T08:50:00.039-04:00

Last night my head leaped from a car window. The wind inflated my cheeks like gills on a fish. My eyeballs turned sticky from the chill in the air. My belly fizzed a romantic bubbly. We were two people, traveling just below the canopy of southern Appalachia. I was already home. Squinting at the thought of us maybe in the distance. Here, carriaged by four cylinders, secretly wishing we would drive forever.

Events start and stop. Pleasure spreads ripples through our memories. Simon and Garfunkel lend us their tune. The best parts are when you are singing. The harmony of all this double-bounces my heart right out of my mouth. My lips erupt their precious secret, "let's keep falling higher and higher. Life's balloon gave me this one string. And the levity of you pulls my whole world up, up and away."

Clouds crash

2009-05-06T08:23:00.008-04:00

Yesterday, the clouds were crashing. A twisted tree pointed to the fray, so proud of its discovery. The heaven's mumbled as what was once fluffy fell to its knees. Swords of thunder ripped through the sky like rocks through rice paper. The ground did not peep; so brave was its position, beneath an armor of history so thick and pure. A rabbit finds shelter as his nose twitches the news. Birds ruffle patiently behind eyes that seem to yawn. Forming a chorus of "this too shall pass", we listen for the sun together.

Tulip's Kiss

2009-04-17T07:47:00.009-04:00

This morning i kissed a tulip. We had been flirting for days. Its face still buried deep in those green cheeks. Above me woodpeckers demanded a bounty as distant dove's cooed their peace. Teenage fraziers barely shoulder high stood noble and guarded. Under their tall furry hats I tried to make them giggle but they would not budge. I wagged a finger at them saying "one day". I decided to practice my saunter. At the top of the hill I cast the sun's first shadow. I was honored. My posse: two dogs and a dwindling cat who knew we would wait. Our morning rounds - life's coffee.

Hey Life

2009-02-25T07:50:00.023-05:00

Hey Life,
Do you hear that stomping? My giant was asleep for so many years you forgot his potential. I urge you to make preparations. He is coming for you. One thing is certain. He is very hungry.

Life, i take from you this one favor. When you cut me, make it deep and to the bone. For this blood drips a royal standard. It flaps high in the wind above drums deep and pounding. My will is an army desperate to plunder. Let your strongest king push me off this mountain. Watch my desire claw its ugly way back to the top.

Life, let your sun burn my face as they lounge under umbrellas. Watch me squirm and sweat as I swing my machete through your thickest jungle. I will find your sacred temple through pain and laughter. My pendulum swings far and heavy as it swaths through your world. And when you send death to fetch me, may it gulp at the thought of taking me down.

skin's music

2009-02-09T06:37:00.044-05:00

In this skin i feel my music. In this skin i know my face. It's not a canary caressing a sonnet. But more like a crow beneath fog's sweaty cape. My crackling caw is gruff on arrival. Grasping at branches long since forgotten, and shake loose my story from the bottom of the gullet. I sound the call of life with my throat to heaven gaping. Loud, gruff, stubbly, and obtuse. This is my song, i am its valley. But even the thorn makes a lasting impression. And what is one's life but its effect on others? My body is a tiny pebble, and this life a ripple through the fabric of forever.

Forgotten Temple

2009-01-14T08:29:00.018-05:00

It was a chubby little church on the side of some forgotten state route in Tennessee. Resting behind a chipped fence with no gate. Its only companion was a saddled plastic caterpillar teetering on a rusted coiled spring. The bricks were overrun with kudzu growing out of all kinds of places. The plain glass windows finally qualified as stained. Blessed only by the occasional rodent, this forgotten temple remained empty on Sunday. Inside, the pipe organ's ghost played a eulogy for its congregation. On the front steps, once home to a fruitful wedding rested the same old broken bottle of Southern Comfort.

It remembered that day. The giant car came racing down the road and pulled over suddenly. The building's hopes were rekindled despite it being a Tuesday. The steeple rose to attention with excitement. Finally, it had some visitors seeking sanctuary. The giant passenger door opened with a loud creak. A mustard haired lady leaned out of the car and began to vomit in the gravel. The church listened as she hacked her confession from the far side of the car. The driver never looked over as he fiddled with the radio. As he sped off he threw the now empty bottle. It was his donation.

Fear's Harvest

2009-01-11T08:33:00.022-05:00

I pressed my knuckles deep into my eye sockets and turned my wrists again-and-again. I was trying to scratch my brain. To touch the parts that caused this awful dream. I didn't know i had it in me. Moments ago I was in a forest laughing. We were playing on a carpet of moss as green as emeralds. Trees so tall the stars knew their name. Bark so moist it conformed to your fingers. We were hunting as the sun was coming down from its high throne. A light fog lingered inches from the ground. Our prey was the chestnut and we gathered them by the armload. Samantha was our basket and she was laughing so hard she could barely stand. An endless barrage of children were emptying their cache into her long dress. Underneath the hemp, her arms had formed a giant basket. She was chock full and giggling. Someone had called her a kangaroo and she started hopping. Every jump, her giant cache would remain frozen in time and space before falling back down inside her. The sound was intoxicating. If only I would had woken.

An electric charge filled the forest as the fog instantly turned to steam. Ears and eyes rose in terror as everyone in our party scattered. I remained, frozen by the spectacle, and watched it all happen. Dark tall figures were appearing out of thin air. One materialized in front of me. He was nine feet tall without a neck. His chest grew a giant stub of a head. Every feature was dark and muted. His arms barely left his body. His wide body blocked out the sun completely. I could only guess he had two legs. He lifted me by the neck effortlessly. My limbs dangling like a dead rabbit. He kept my eyes pointing into the blackness that was his face. His actions were long and deliberate as if his intentions were purely to elicit a reaction.

He revealed a device akin to a large electric razor. At each side of the instrument were two pincers that looked like a giant beetle's mouth with spark plugs. Shoulder-length apart, he held the device inches from my chest and made some adjustments. The pincers spread wider as if finding their mark. He gazed at me one last time before i heard the whir and hum. Two bright blue electric bolts burrowed into my chest just below my shoulders. I felt the bolts under my skin cook my blood. I could no longer move my lungs. My muscles did not respond. My captor seemed to perk up a bit at my realization. He started turning dials as the machine contracted my muscles and forced me to expel my lungs. My chest sank deeper and deeper as I felt the oxygen push from my body. My ribs could feel the bending pain as the suction compacted my chest. He turned the dial again and my lungs instantly filled as my mouth and nose felt the gush of air. I could taste him on my tongue. He left the air in my lungs for a while as my dangling feet pleaded for mercy. My heart stumbled at every erratic breath. He was quite skilled with the device. In-and-out he did this. He watched my expressions gasping for air again-and-again.

His intentions were clear. He was absorbing my fear. He too was here in the forest hunting. As terror dripped from my eyes, he was ingesting my prana like sap from a tree. He could tell my vessel was empty. With his belly full I watched him adjust some dials. I realized he was going to let me go. I was overcome by a startling feeling of familiarity. This had happened before. Just then the pincers shot another bolt into my chest. I was breathing on my own. I noticed another plug rise from the machine. This was bigger and came from the center. He raised the device to my forehead as he adjusted some dials. It made perfect sense. He was going to erase the memory of what had just happened. His next harvest would yield the same bounty of fear. I heard the buzzing hum again...

The generous pirate

2009-01-10T16:21:00.003-05:00

I remember the day his steady vagueness finally became clear. It took decades for the fog's consistency to finally break through my thick stubborn bone. There was no center. I had moored myself to an empty rowboat. My captain was a decorated scarecrow. How many years had i foolishly stood at attention waiting for a returned salute. Life had afforded me several opportunities to laugh in the mirror. This chuckle rose slower than most. I imagine my station in life was ordained for a specific purpose. I was hand placed in my home for a reason. Was not life's purpose the reason's discovery.

Screening Guilt

2009-01-08T07:46:00.031-05:00

The court of public opinion had finally left the building. Minivans were packed full and heading home. Trashcans waved goodbye, jammed full like vases with fresh daisies. The snow was dumping as I shut the theater doors. There she was, my sweet solitude. My toes breathe as I see her again. She smirks from the back row as if she had been here this whole time. I know she missed this fiasco, but she knows what I go through during the season. When the madness of the crowd filled my room. This bog of mumbles. Obligation's projector kept ticking and clicking. Pulsing beams broadcasting through stank smoke. Silence slumped in the corner. He was slowly choking. Sanity's chips fell from the ceiling. But that madness is all gone now. Nothing left but sticky popcorn crunching underfoot. I smiled back at her as we rekindle our quiet candle. I imagined her on the roof this whole time, tickling the stars with her eyes. She was always so good at being timeless. Robotic footsteps broke through our moment as I turned back towards the stage. Mr Guilt stopped center-stage beneath his brown derby. He stood straight and proud with his arms bear-hugging a pile of costumes. A small metal strong box dangled from his pinky like some lazy monkey. Clearing his throat, he announced, "I think we are done here." You could tell he was satisfied, and so were we.

Loyalty's Conviction

2008-12-13T05:23:00.028-05:00

That love was a tempest. So deeply chemical. Molecular. Some pages i just can't turn. Or at least it sure seems so. Its like that giant stone in the garden that has to go. I can't seem to slide my fingers underneath to get a grip. Tendered fingers clawing through muddied sharp gravel. Where is the bottom of it all? How deep, wide and heavy. Once there, i'm sure i can pry it up. Longing for that satisfying dramatic slurp as mud's glue gives way to shear will. Perhaps this garden should flow around it? I again grab the hose as if it was a new idea. "Let water's way loosen up this madness." The cat perches nearby wondering who i am talking to. Thumb to spout, I focus this stream to see if it helps. Through the gushing, I remind myself of the whole story. How she drove sixteen hours to surprise me. Boy that sure worked. I sent her off with some chardonney and a funny story about Pluto. If there was a song "The situation was different" it would have played in the background. Years have passed, but never that night. Today, it kicks me still. I found her single in the Fall. She tells me there is nothing left to say. Her phone rings empty. No funny stories. I stand a man convicted of loyalty. How cold it is, out here with Pluto. At one time, we were both considered something. We both chuckle at the happenstance. Perhaps it is better this way. I feel daisy's push as i return to digging. I wave a magic finger as moon draws closer. She whispers, "The thing about pages is you only have so many." I retort jesting, "Shut-up and hand me that shovel!"

When grass giggled

2008-11-28T06:09:00.008-05:00

Simplicity came tumbling down the hill yesterday. It plodded happily back to the top through thick mint carpet. In the grass, each footstep's impression was magically erased. At the summit, he sat a moment and noticed how perfect land's green met sky's blue. Simple was ready for another ride. He tucked his arms deep into his chest, and let the weight of his head call timber as his trunk tilted over. His feet stuck out straight as momentum started spinning. His eyes blended the colors into a delicious smoothie. His nose tickled at every turn. Eyelashes sword fought with blades of grass. Even so young, simple had an idea about how special this was. Him and gravity playing on this perfect hill, on this perfect day. As this log of a boy rolled to a stop, he laughed so hard the grass giggled.

Smokey the Bear

2008-11-09T08:13:00.027-05:00

My last cigarette was September 1, 2008. Since that night, I have noticed a steady rise in my dream intensity. I thought I would share this dream as an example. My house sits almost at the top of a windy, cold mountain. It is nested perfectly inside an amphitheater of natural ridges. Giant chunky boulders crest the dirt like stadium seating. Groundhogs and chipmunks sell hotdogs and chuck peanuts at each other all day long. My two dogs are clinically manic from all the constant chasing and digging. We face the east directly and when the sun rises the entire house catches fire in a brilliant orange splendor.

I found myself standing in my living room. My surroundings were similar except a fresh large evergreen had grown outside my double-picture window. The tree was magnificent and stood twenty feet high. The branches seemed sculpted and jutted out from the trunk like regal soldiers. After we acquainted, a small wild cat with long gray fur came barreling down the ridge. It launched itself into the air and landed a few feet up the trunk. The cat was scrambling higher as fast as it could go. In the middle of wondering, my question was answered by a huge booming sound. Black and brown muscles covered in fur came tearing down the hillside. A giant bear, two stories tall, had grabbed hold of the tree and bent it completely over. Like a green slinky, the tree was resilient and kept a grip on the feline.

The bear was menacing. His teeth were stained, his fur was matted and dried drops of sweat sparkled. His fists were giant catchers mitts of rusted steel. He swatted them through the air like hot wet cannons. The bear kept falling against the house as he vied for position on the steep hillside. My home’s foundation was shaking from the menace. Glass shattered and shelves were toppled. Suddenly, the smell from my fearful breath seemed to catch its attention. It turned its giant cobra neck towards me. I was completely terrified. Its eyes were black as tar and just as sticky. If death had an expression, the bear was using it. It barreled up my front steps, collapsing wood snapped and splintered like thunder underneath its feet. The next thing I saw were the giant brown fists tearing and punching through my paper-thin walls.

I yanked myself out of the dream and landed on my bed with a huge thud. My dog was perched like a sphinx watching over me. His tail wagged concernedly. His head cocked sideways and panting. He seemed to know exactly what I was thinking. Boy, did I want a cigarette.

Entropy

2008-10-29T08:20:00.005-04:00

If practice makes perfect, how do you get better at the art of practice? Is the art really like some magic glue from tv. Open the tube and the countdown begins. does pliancy run home sobbing when entropy kicks open the shutters. I still believe some things can be stirred forever. Still I digress, but don't we all? And isn't that the point of this morsel? Digression is rampant. In fact, we digress from the second we are born. But here's a surprise, I never thought love would digress. Oh boy, here he goes again.

Let's get something straight, i do have that memo. It is hanging on my cork board and nothing sits on top of it. It's quite clear and it sits at eye level. Yellow legal paper with the carbon blue horizontal lines and the typical three hole-punch. One tall canary stick pin keeps it from moving. In a long-ago dried blue sharpie it says, "You can't go back". Sometimes i have to fax it to my office as a reminder. This story is not some desperate attempt to sneak past the guards of time. Those Shultzes of yesterday. I fully embrace this sad little fact, the wheel of Samsara is not a wheel but instead a spiraling ripple. Never the same.

Snow's trumpet

2008-10-28T11:13:00.022-04:00

Can you hear the snow’s quiet trumpet?
Her vow of silence venerates eternally.
Heaven's princely escort opens sky’s ballroom.
Gravity’s sonnet tickles loose her gentle curtsy.
Witness white’s chastity turned pure in the season.
A feathery waltz guides her to soil’s massive ache.
Crystal blossoms captivate the timeless crisp perfection.
How wickedly jealous the fire must be.

Memory's Tower

2008-10-27T17:39:00.013-04:00

Oh memory's tower, how long overdue is this inspection? Today, I behold thee, my monument to passing. You are my stronghold, my bastion of definition. Without your comfort I fade to oblivion. So tall you reach higher with each day lived fully. Overlooking a forgetful sea, you stab through night's curtain, my beacon of meaning. Every stone a story, each crack a tear. Today, I find your foundation lacking, empty spaces once filled with something. Who takes your stones away? Where are these cursed vandals hiding? So busy is my stacking, day-upon-day. I never imagined you would grow so tall, nor crumble so freely.

From memory’s tower, I survey my intentions. Is my seasoned life too salty? Do I corrode forever’s cement? How long can you stand proudly against this churning? How far will you guide me through these winds? You are my rock, my anchor, my tall, proud captain. Memory’s tower, I salute thee. How blessed I am to know you. How thankful to not forget.

Time's big mouth

2008-10-24T09:23:00.013-04:00

Time has a big gaping mouth. You can see it's molars. Those dirty metallic fillings lingering in the shadows. That tongue, always flapping, bumps as big as boulders in a farmer's field. It will spill the beans. It is not to be trusted. I once whispered I was young. It gave me away without warning. I once told it i feared the reaper. It waved a flag marking my position.

You can be nice to time but it won't return the favor. I give it rides on my wrist asking nothing in return. We glance at it daily checking to see if its okay. My mom keeps it in a beautiful bottle on her desk at home. She turns it every so often to watch it pour sand. I go home to visit and we play with it in front of the fire. Finding words in a box as time watches warmly. We cook with it, we drive it places. We find solace in it's achieving.

What does time do for us in return? It doesn't move at our request. It won't take a pause when something is caught in our eye. If we need a moment, it becomes impatient. Obliging us only briefly. Time, I ask you, "Where's the fire? Why will you not stop for more than just a moment? Let us sit here together in the stillness, you and me."

Defy the Wizard

2008-10-22T08:25:00.012-04:00

I climbed the mountain on a cloudy day. At the top, an old theme park waited. It was the Land of Oz. The wind tried to stop me from reaching the summit, but once at the top I would see forever. Despite the cloud's curtain, the wizard would be waiting. Trees curled in grayness with ancient branches clinging by a whisper. I have seen the shape of the wind. It looks like a titan, and blows "this is no place for you". Still I mount that summit daily looking for his wisdom.

I am a creatrix, never reaching greatness. My medium slips through my fingers always wet and muddled. I change my focus like that very same wind. My back grows heavier from time's regret. My deepest critics: the silence of a friend, the loneliness of confidence. I have screamed songs, i have played tunes, I have drawn laughs, I have loved, I have written. The wizard still shakes his head no. Everywhere my feet rest someone else is stepping.

Tell me I am arrogant, so I can show pictures. My hands clenching my ego by the neck and drowning it in the still water. Tell me it’s a lack of confidence, for I have resurrected my body from the seas of despair. Reborn, time-and-again: a scholar, a soldier, a minstrel, a lover, a painter, and a poet. Position filled, take a number. One shade remains: the color of hope, this nod from a wizard.

The Gathering

2008-10-17T21:01:00.017-04:00

Deep in the forest of southern Missouri, our entourage dismounted. Rangers in tall hats were loitering. They sniffed us through thick dark glasses. Like hungry wolves they watched as we geared up for our journey. It was a show of strength but we were not fearful. The canopy was calling and we passed in peace. Car doors shut. Keys were skillfully buried. Water bottles capped full and hung from bandanas. Like wet peaches, the forest swallowed us effortlessly.

Miles of branches acted as turnstiles leading us to the edge of the makeshift camp. The first child I spotted was a tall thin man in his twenties. He wore a stud collar and sagged tighty whiteys. Emerged, he circled his tent with a commitment. He was a child of the rainbow. Speechless, I passed him by. Our group was dissolving without notice, each of us alone in our buffet of vision. Crossing a stream, I could hear her humming. She was knee-deep in mud and cleaner than rain. Ahead lounged her sister, pregnant and stunning, daisies pooling in her fingers. A fat man draped in a congregation was preaching. “Be Here Now!”, over-and-over again. Walking sticks, intricate with experience, held hands with their makers and sunk holes in the ground forever. Everywhere I looked there were children of the rainbow.

That night a fire was burning as big as a mountain. A circle of drums came booming like thunder. My soul rattled myself loose from its grip. I saw love’s rhythm soar so high the moon was reaching. We were one as I became nothing. All my wishes cooked true. For in a sudden crescendo, my chest erupted like a raging volcano, and I was reborn. I ran through that bright night a naked hyena, laughing and playing. Born again, me, this new child of the rainbow.

Life for a box of pizza

2008-10-15T08:07:00.012-04:00

Life-changing events rarely blink, “check engine.” I was 17. My mission, propel pies through space and time in less than 30 minutes. Music exploded from tiny speakers. Hills bounced up-and-down as I screamed through the wind in my metallic blue wagon. Distance was the enemy and I was the destroyer.

He was maybe 12 as life walked him home. His sticky feet clung to the brief, narrow shoulder. No homework, his backpack swung gleefully. In his mind beamed a lighthouse of Fruit Loops and Scooby. His little tugboat was almost home. One more hilly bounce and I came barreling behind him. My fender screamed bloody murder. I squeezed that wheel like a death-filled cobra. Stiff and straight my only direction, spine to foot I forged a girder.

Two inches missed him, but only in theory. For my heart and soul smacked him down that day. My chassis sent his flesh-filled body sailing. I can see his baby sister screaming behind a window. Her mother rendered wretched, a liquid pile of sadness. His dad a propped scarecrow guarding a hollow heavy casket.

Life for a box of pizza. Forever I remember those tiny two inches. When life swiped its sizzling claws and I saw those fangs, drooling with brevity.

Thus spake hibiscus

2008-10-14T15:14:00.016-04:00

KCMO 1996ish

The October sun burst through my window like a proud laser. In my den, my hibiscus waited eagerly, its hand stretched up high and waving. I noticed it missing the sunshine by a measly three inches. After some math, I had determined that it had been going through this for months. There it was, inches from the morning, stuck in a pot, immovable. From this shadowy jail, it watched the floor planks basking. And there I stood, its guilty warden. Redemption led me over and I sat down beside him. Pulling my knees close to my chest, the floor spoke of the chill in the morning. Down here, the hibiscus was my elder. I sat underneath my new buddy soaking in the view. We would wait for the sun together.

At first, it was like church with your parents. A ritual with attentions traded elsewhere. There was a lot of staring and daydreams spread wide like grazing buffalo. My hibiscus held this front row ticket daily. Sitting next to him, I noticed something unexpected. There was a deep calmness that came from immobility. All the decisions of where to go and how to get there faded. Glued to the floor, the world became a slow ebbing canvas. Passive miracles happened in this room. Like this sunbeam preparing for a solo. As the day spread before us, I could imagine how life tasted stuck right here in a pot. How conversations in my kitchen were a land far away. The coffee pot sputtered. The sound a mere pigeon cooing in the distance. After all, there was no kitchen.

A short fuzzy dogma

2008-10-14T08:20:00.000-04:00

What in tarnation is reincarnation? I always thought it silly, a life preserver some may cling to when the waves are pounding. I never hated the idea mind you; I like things that make people feel good. But my problem with reincarnation is ego. The ego is so … well … egotistical. The real world seems more like a giant hot cauldron, a bubbling brew of being. Our lives are nothing more than tiny drops of soul spurting out of the big pot. We live only for a moment, before falling back in again. Outside the bowl we have this sense of a self. But our ego is really nothing more than surface tension. It keeps us together as we spin in the air. Once back in the bowl, there is no drop. We are complete again.

Then there was the dream. I think it was a dream, i can't remember. It's actually kind of stupid but most things i find profound seem to come from a pocket of absurdity. You know that tunnel of light we apparently see at death? They say we are drawn to it, pulled towards the light. Sometimes we return from the tunnel to report on it, all that stuff. What if that tunnel is in fact the birth canal? Can death be the realization that we have only returned to the very same place from where we started? If true, then death is not our killer. Birth stands guilty. For the heat of this truth melts us like butter.

Annie Is

2008-10-13T16:11:00.008-04:00

KCMO

Her name was Annie and I told her I was hungry. She knew exactly what I meant, for she was a feast of being. I lived above her, downtown, in a building of six. It was the only time she could ever look up at me. She was a triple water sign, but i only flooded her apartment twice. The first time was my shower; the second, my kitchen sink. I won an Oscar playing her fool. Years later I sent her a poem but all I could muster was “Annie is”. Enclosed was a garlic stem I deemed pretty. Her gaze sent ripples through your soul. Her presence a gift brought down by a Sherpa. When she departed, that poor building missed her.

Paint would dry as i snailed cross her landing. Sometimes, I knocked but it was always a whisper. A brushing of fingertips, like a dare between children. Her door was thick as solid as ancient. It told me it could open, but it needed a reason.

One bright day, a stone lion basked outside a tall building. I would occasionally sit on the lion’s back. We would watch the driver’s speeding past and urge them to wake up! Suddenly a driver yanked his car out of traffic, bewildered, he beckoned me over asking, “Who are you?” My answer meant nothing. I was already running home to tell Annie my will had stopped traffic. Knock, knock, and knock. The door opened as promised. Tea was served my lips can still taste. She listened to me brag patiently. For my amazing was Annie’s everyday. Even her dog was my elder. He stared at me through eyes of pity that made me feel welcome.

To say I loved her would be shallow and dopey. This was more of a deep respect like that you pay a giant bear in a forest. Where eye contact is out of the question. But in the periphery growled raw, naked wisdom. Annie told me to write and listen to candles. I still sit up straight at the thought of her.

One day, barefoot, I kicked a raised slab of concrete. Deep thumps of pain began their steady pounding. I hobbled home peering through a moist vision. Almost waiting for me, she sat me on the steps and rubbed her hands together blowing. My foot kept pounding; I swear she could hear it. She cupped her hands around my big toe and so began a conversation. I couldn't hear every word. My toe relayed its story. Her hands seemed to listen. There was no argument. The pain simply agreed it was mistaken. Heartbeats of heat hummed in from long slender fingers. I tried to tell her how amazing it was but you could tell she had heard it all before. Maybe that’s why I stopped my pen at “Annie Is”.