an arrow released will never return

and we are all arrows in flight

 

but who or what or where

is the bowman?

can we be our own archer?

and why take flight at all?

 

if we are the super being

then surely we know why

or at least once knew.

 

could curiosity be the bowman?

could we the super being, infinite

simply be curious in our own self?

 

puzzles are the answer.

do you see how much

we enjoy puzzles

everyday puzzles

fun puzzles

painful puzzles

ah, to test ourselves

our mental fortitude

our cleverness

the challenge of it all...

 

could we the infinite,

simply be afraid

to be bored

and in the corner of

our infinitus, shelve a puzzle

named universe,

we all play?

The Story of the Woman Whose Son Died

               Every day she walked for hours, after her son died, in the nearby woods.   She had an unintelligible energy— too much to sit still, too much to focus, too little to do anything, at all.  So, she walked in the woods.  Some days, she would walk and end up lost in the woods.  She felt happy when she got lost for a moment.  For a moment, she would stop thinking of him.  Then, one day, she stood still, as did the woods, and she thought of the word or the term ‘lost’.  And she thought, on this still day, is anything ever lost?  Does anything really exist?  Did it ever exist?  I no longer possess it.  Can you ever possess anything?  Did I ever possess it?  Her heart ached, no longer thinking lost, but feeling lost.  Feeling every letter, and then his voice enters her heart ‘L’, his smile ‘O’, his touch ‘S’, the last moment she remembers seeing him ‘T’.  Her heart came so close to bursting, that day the woods stood still… she never got lost again.

                On another day, many many after the lost day, she found a place in the woods where rays of sunshine lit up the ground the largest.  She liked this spot very much, as most of the woods were shaded, but it was because of the immense shade that made this place so special.  She felt a deep peace here and found herself many days staring into the light.  This brought her a peace she rarely felt anymore.  She continued to visit this special place, and on a day quite similar to the lost day, she looked to sky as usual and then she sat.  She sat, stretched and looked around.  There in the shade of the taller trees, was one smaller tree.  To her, it appeared all the trees looked down onto this one tree in a mocking manner.   She felt a sudden rage come over her, here in here peaceful place, a rage that consumed her being.  She picked herself up and ran home in a blur.  She grabbed an axe determined to cut all the large trees down.  When she returned to her special place with the axe, she approached a large tree and as she swung the axe, a melancholy sensation ran through her.  She dropped the axe and began to howl in pain and cry.

                She passed out and awoke determined to care for the little tree.  Every day she carried water with a song on her heart, day in day out.  But time proved that this little tree appeared smaller or all the woods were growing higher around it.  She felt the rage again, but the pain to howl or cry had left her body and gone too, the energy to wield the axe.  At the moment of rage, or the moment she felt it was to emerge from her being, she looked upward and the sun caught her eye.  The calm returned.  Still determined to care for the tree, she returned daily with water, a song on her heart, but this time she brought mirrors to redirect the sunlight to the little tree.  She continued this daily journey until her little tree was the largest in the woods.

A Good Time - C. Bukowski

The Folly of Existence

...and how do you propose to prove your existence? Punch me. No. Punch me! You serious K? Fucking punch me asshole! Or... Smack! K holds his left cheek, opening and closing his mouth, a slow painful yawning motion. Swollen tongue speaks: Outs! Fuk-er! You exist! Again! No way. Again! Uh-uh. K runs into a wall, head first. Why are you doing this? Dazed and slurry: We decided. We decided. Hit me. Ok. Ok. K gets hit many times. Passing out. In a dream he floats in his unconscious pondering the pain: I know now I am not alert enough to protect my body, nor maintain its health in this state, but yet I am aware I am in a sense asleep. I exist now even though I am unable to move or physically control my body. If I never leave this state I am in, could I through time create a new reality to live in? Could I reconstruct the universe I recall. I do feel a dull aching outside. Fading from awareness to fading darkness. Rest. I am awake screams K. How long was I out? 5 minutes. Ok. Now give me the drug. You sure you want to go through with this K? I'm… not sure. Just keep filming and take notes. Dammit K. Rolling K's shirt sleeve up. A shoe string wraps around his upper bicep. The needle plunges into a vein. Euphoria. Pain oozes out his finger tips, leaving a limp, almost lifeless body, the video will later reveal. K begins to float detached above his body: I know now I am not alert enough to protect my body, nor maintain its health in this state, but yet I am aware I am in a sense asleep. I exist now even though I am unable to move or physically control my body. If I never leave this state I am in, could I through time create a new reality to live in? Could I reconstruct the universe I recall. I feel nothing anymore of body, pain eludes me and yet, here I am again, still aware of the extremity. And yet, I still question the power of my existence. Restlessness and darkness overcome K again. Slowly, groggy with sleepy eyes K mumbles: How long? About two and half hours. Ok. Give me the gun. You don't have to do this. We have enough to work with. Let's go over it again. Give me the gun. I can't. Where is it? No way. I need to know. The gun finds its way into K's hand. Trigger pressed. Quickly K goes black: I know now I am not alert enough to protect my body, nor maintain its health in this state, but yet I am aware I am in a sense asleep. I exist now even though I am unable to move or physically control my body. If I never leave this state I am in, could I through time create a new reality to live in? Could I reconstruct the universe I recall. Darkness and heavy sleep cover K's eye. ...and how do you propose you exist again? I cannot prove or disprove my existence. Nor can I do the same for you. Now. The question unfolds: why exist at all? With pain, without pain or not aware of either, why? My experience is mine alone. I cannot confirm any other thing exists or has existed except for the sole one of myself. I think, therefore am thought. But whose thought was that, I thought to think? Am I the origin of thought? Did the original thought consist of self? How can it be known or does it matter? The conscious and the unconscious being aware of it's being in any either state, with and without pain, seemingly places the being in an extraordinary existence to the degree that the being, being aware, is. And that is the folly of existence.

Everyone's a Skeptic--About Other Religions

James A. Haught

Published on February 13, 2007

[Editor's note: This was originally delivered as a talk to Campus Freethought Alliance, Marshall University, Huntington, WV, on July 12, 1998]

Religion is an extremely touchy topic. Church members often become angry if anyone questions their supernatural dogmas. (Bertrand Russell said this is because they subconsciously sense that their beliefs are irrational.) So I try to avoid confrontations that can hurt feelings. Nearly everyone wants to be courteous. But sometimes disputes can't be avoided. If you think the spirit realm is imaginary, and if honesty makes you say so, you may find yourself under attack. It has happened to many doubters. Thomas Jefferson was called a "howling atheist." Leo Tolstoy was called an "impious infidel."

Well, if you wind up in a debate, my advice is: Try to be polite. Don't let tempers flare, if you can help it. Appeal to your accuser's intelligence.

I've hatched some questions you may find useful. They're designed to show that church members, even the most ardent worshipers, are skeptics too--because they doubt every magical system except their own.

If a churchman berates you, you might reply like this:

You're an unbeliever, just like me. You doubt many sacred dogmas. Let me show you:

Millions of Hindus pray over statues of Shiva's penis. Do you think there's an invisible Shiva who wants his penis prayed over--or are you a skeptic?

Mormons say that Jesus came to America after his resurrection. Do you agree--or are you a doubter?

Florida's Santeria worshipers sacrifice dogs, goats, chickens, etc., and toss their bodies into waterways. Do you think Santeria gods want animals killed--or are you skeptical?

Muslim suicide bombers who blow themselves up in Israel are taught that "martyrs" go instantly to a paradise full of lovely female houri nymphs. Do you think the dead bombers are in heaven with houris--or are you a doubter?

Unification Church members think Jesus visited Master Moon and told him to convert all people as "Moonies." Do you believe this sacred tenet of the Unification Church?

Jehovah's Witnesses say that, any day now, Satan will come out of the earth with an army of demons, and Jesus will come out of the sky with an army of angels, and the Battle of Armageddon will kill everyone on earth except Jehovah's Witnesses. Do you believe this solemn teaching of their church?

Aztecs skinned maidens and cut out human hearts for a feathered serpent god. What's your stand on invisible feathered serpents? Aha!--just as I suspected, you don't believe.

Catholics are taught that the communion wafer and wine magically become the actual body and blood of Jesus during chants and bell-ringing. Do you believe in the "real presence"--or are you a disbeliever?

Faith-healer Ernest Angley says he has the power, described in the Bible, to "discern spirits," which enables him to see demons inside sick people, and see angels hovering at his revivals. Do you believe this religious assertion?

The Bible says people who work on the sabbath must be killed: "Whosoever doeth any work in the sabbath day, he shall surely be put to death" (Exodus 31:15). Should we execute Sunday workers--or do you doubt this scripture?

At a golden temple in West Virginia, saffron-robed worshipers think they'll become one with Lord Krishna if they chant "Hare Krishna" enough. Do you agree--or do you doubt it?

Members of the Heaven's Gate commune said they could "shed their containers" (their bodies) and be transported to a UFO behind the Hale-Bopp Comet. Do you think they're now on that UFO--or are you a skeptic?

During the witch hunts, inquisitor priests tortured thousands of women into confessing that they blighted crops, had sex with Satan, etc. then burned them for it. Do you think the church was right to enforce the Bible's command, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" (Exodus 22:18)--or do you doubt this scripture?

Members of Spiritualist churches say they talk with the dead during worship services. Do you think they actually communicate with spirits of deceased people?

Millions of American Pentecostals spout "the unknown tongue," a spontaneous outpouring of sounds. They say it is the Holy Ghost, the third god of the Trinity, speaking through them. Do you believe this sacred tenet of many Americans?

Scientologists say each human has a soul which is a "Thetan" that came from another planet. Do you believe their doctrine--or doubt it?

Ancient Greeks thought a multitude of gods lived on Mt. Olympus--and some of today's New Agers think invisible Lemurians live inside Mt. Shasta. What's your position on mountain gods--belief or disbelief?

In the mountains of West Virginia, some people obey Christ's farewell command that true believers "shall take up serpents" (Mark 16:18).They pick up rattlers at church services. Do you believe this scripture, or not?

India's Thugs thought the many-armed goddess Kali wanted them to strangle human sacrifices. Do you think there's an invisible goddess who wants people strangled--or are you a disbeliever?

Tibet's Buddhists say that when an old Lama dies, his spirit enters a baby boy being born somewhere. So they remain leaderless for a dozen years or more, then they find a pubescent boy who seems to have knowledge of the old Lama's private life, and they anoint the boy as
the new Lama (actually the old Lama in a new body). Do you think that dying Lamas fly into new babies, or not?

In China in the 1850s, a Christian convert said God appeared to him, told him he was Jesus' younger brother, and commanded him to "destroy demons." He raised an army of believers who waged the Taiping Rebellion that killed 20 million people. Do you think he was Christ's
brother--or do you doubt it?

Etc., etc. You get the picture.

I'll bet there isn't a church member anywhere who doesn't think all those supernatural beliefs are goofy--except for the one he or she believes.

You see, by going through a laundry list of theologies, you can show that the average Christian doubts 99 percent of the world's holy dogmas. But the 1 percent he believes is really no different than the rest. It's a system of miraculous claims, without any reliable evidence to support it.

So, if we can show people that some sacred "truths" are nutty, maybe subconscious logic will seep through, and they'll realize that if some magical beliefs are irrational, all may be.

This progression is rather like a scene in the poignant Peter de Vries novel, The Blood of the Lamb. In the book, a gushy woman compliments a Jew because "your people" reduced the many gods of polytheism to just one god. The man replies: "Which is just a step from the truth."

Meanwhile, it's encouraging to realize that almost everyone in the world is a skeptic--at least about other people's religion.

Nothing or the Falling Too

What do we hold on to
When we are falling:
Gravity, air or thin ice?

You can push
You can pull
You can trick yourself
In believing you are in control

When you are falling,
There is never any place to go
When you are falling.
The cool glide of friction
Between the ice and skate
Is a metaphor, for
Goodness sake.
Your are not gliding
Sliding or riding
You are the space between
The skate and the ice.
You are the friction between,
When you are falling.

And we are all falling
And we all will not stop
And not one of us falls faster
Than the other.
We all have different start times
On our fall.
And you don't know yet that you are falling and you probably won't
Ever recognize you are falling
Have been falling
Will continue falling
Until we stop.
But no one knows that information. No one.
And that's okay
When that's all you do.

The Falling

I slip
I trip
I falling.
When you never land
You keep falling.
When I trip and slip
I flip the light switch.
No matter,
When you are falling
There is never much
To see.
Falling is swimming
Against a strong tide
You try one way
No matter,
The tide pulls you the other.
Falling becomes flying
But not like a bird
No matter,
If you try
You fly like a rock.
Never hitting ground.
When you are falling
That is all you do.
No matter,
When that is what
You do.
I slip
I trip
I falling.
In darkness
Against my will
Weighted heavily
In a perpetual
Never-ending
Fall.
And that's okay
When that's all you do.

The Blocker

“To find happiness and what is most important in life,
we only need to see who is sitting closest to us.” -for DLP & CEP

You were close today
You are always close
But today I almost felt you

Sort all the details with the universe:
A pizza and few beers should do the trick
Help me to get back in check
Been so busy these days…

And the drive over to the pizza parlor
We sat and said little to each other
Long drives and long weekends do that
Trivial mental complaints mostly

And why we weren’t connected
Is the same reason we forget:
Sun is shining and melts icicles away
Tomorrow may bring snow

Third in line, we cross the menu
With eyes that have memorized
A ritual I guess, not to decide what to have
But to check to see if there are changes

I didn’t know you were next in line
The younger couple who cut in front of you
Blocked you from my view
And now, they probably wish they hadn’t

But they didn’t know
And we all thought little of you
Even at that moment
When the younger couple passed me by

And you were coming straight at me
But that young man blocked my view
He tripped over you and fell
And he will never stand again

To remember is never enough
And to forget is never possible
You are and will always be
You are not and never have been

But, You were close today
You are always close
But today I almost felt you…

Remnants – A Carpet Tragedy

I know you are out there, because I think I remember you
you existed once, I am sure, because I think I remember

a new breed of archaeology:
the archaeologists digs in the schoolyard of his youth
sifting through the first layer of the yard
an old candy wrapper, perhaps his he thinks

and whether it is or not, he believes it is and therefore it is
he thinks how lovely it must have tasted, but it is not the same
he doesn’t recall the last piece of candy he ate
and this wrapper no longer has a tasteful memory

sifting more, a twisted paperclip looking like a person
and he recalls how he once twisted paperclips
to look like animals or people or phallic objects for laughs
those were the easiest ones to make, he smirks

digging more, finding many lost pieces of the schoolyard
forgotten matchbox car named friends,
asphalt superball competitions,
green plastic barrette crushes

and the crush for the moment is memory
he had many future wives when he dreamt their life ahead
it was clear then, how many kids they’d have, the car they’d drive
the date they’d marry, but now they are nameless, faceless

the yard has been thoroughly dissected
mounds of little treasures lie all about
larger dirt piles surround those treasures, and now
the bulldozers can come in and make way for a new tract

he thinks:

I know you are out there, because I think I remember you
you existed once, I am sure, because I think I remember…

the cornflake girl

there really is no secret to the big mystery, she contemplates on a cornflake in a sea of milk. floating on her crunchy ship she thinks to ask the illustrious one to join her. chewing a salt-water taffy chew looking abroad to the purple sunset, the divine being sits beside her. she smiles without looking at the being, chewing softly with a smirk—a little dimple in the crease of her lips. careful with her thoughts, as she knows the being knows them without speaking. ask the question! she yells in her mind. the illustrious one curious as to the contents of her bag, knowing the contents very well, asks for a salt-water taffy chew. too excited to resist she fumbles one over to the being. unwrapping the wax paper chew, the illustrious one slowly inserts and begins to gently/softly chew the candy.

after several moments or years, so much happens in a moment and wonderful moments like these seem endless. the divine being speaks to her, I don’t give religion much thought nor do I care for church either, but this salt-water taffy chew, sitting next to you on your cornflake raft, will be something I dream about often, thank you. the being disappears as the last word is uttered. she smiles and floats on.

“little one” a monstrous female voice bellows and quakes her milk sea and knocks her crunchy ship over. she struggles for breath as milk splashes in her mouth “little one” again! the milky sea turns to black and for her the nightmare begins again. the darkness is an enormous wave cresting over her head...she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and sinks. little one, have you finished your breakfast. time to get you to school!

a horribly stinky kitchen with awful hard chairs made of wood and yucky pictures on the wall are the first things she sees as she opens her eyes. clothes made of hard scratchy paper touch her neck, and she hates how tight they feel around her neck and the sleeves are too short then too long. and her shoes are to tight then too loose. getting ready to go is something that just eventually happens, an event created by a frantic amateur promoter.

this day like most causes a queasy feeling in her belly. her appetite is nullified by the nutrition she encounters in her dreams. she forgets all when she sees the school. it too has little to offer her—her only joy in school is when she escapes in dream, for school has many opportunities for a dreamer to dream.

Nadia Part Eight

THE LAST DAY

The surf rolling in and out, but mostly out, as the mist sprays salt kisses goodbye to the wind. The smell is sweet, almost spring. Gulls cry in almost symphonic tones that they are no longer annoying to the ear, but escalating to a finale. They make your heart race, not those quick beats from fear, but those of new love, each beat raises your senses, a peak awareness. New sand soft, felt-like on your old feet gives you the impression that your feet have never touched the earth before, tender, infantile. As you approach closer to surf the water embraces your feet, legs as a blanket from your youth, folding its gentle span over you. The sun splits the clouds to display jewels in the water, shimmering a thousand suns. You think this moment is the same as your fist unconscious memory, warm, soothing and yet, it is mostly indefinably intense.

You begin your swim, as you have the many days before, slow with your head above the ocean top. Today the resistance from water that seemed to always prevent you from going forth, encourages you to go on. Your motions become effortless as an albatross flies overhead and a pelican 'V' soon follows. Almost a parade of sea-life begins before you or a procession you are unsure; but as the dolphins begin jumping and flipping before you, you soon realize it’s a procession and it’s yours.

The sea soon fills with all the swimming fish around you as land disappears. The dolphin swim along side of you like pall-bearers of the sea, and a school of fish below carry you. A great white bird, perhaps the albatross, the sun now reflecting its many jewels almost blinding now, sets a crown of shells of many color upon your head. You feel royalty flowing through you as you become less aware of your body and the sea and the fish and the sky blue over you. The sun becomes white and you float effortlessly into it, your last day...

Nadia Part Seven

CATULLUS THE FOOL

You remember the day too, the day you met the fool—a long bather in the pool of mediocrity, a champion sooth sailor of misery’s correct manner, a boy ripe with lust ready to follow the thumping mid-range. You are the entrance.

The truth is he changed; they all do. When a man finds his heart within a woman, they change, but the problem lies with the expectations of the woman to comply. Some women do, but not you. When your lover comes to this crushing realization, you glow with life, a pleasure form of immortality for you, remembrance creates permanence...eternalness. Forever is the time in which you exist, and until your lovers reach this point, you feel nothing.

Your initial intent is not harm, but you are drawn to these flowers of blossoming innocence. They are there in need of an admirer, because you believe girls love trophies. But the fool is special, he, you immortalize. You see a chrysanthemum growing among the weeds in your fields of rye. There isn’t some romantic reminiscence of love; or you lost the man of dreams; or the one that got away, no, he wasn’t special like that at all. He was a boy who needed to be taught the ways of manhood and poetry, a student and you, his mentor, his muse: “...qua sunt totidem mea: deprecor illam/ assidue, verum dispeream nisi amo.” Farewell.

“...because it is just the same with me. I am perpetually crying out upon her, but may I perish if I do not love her.” - Catullus Poem 92

Nadia Part Six

THE POET

She told me once that she traveled the world.
She told me all the places she had been:

A lioness with a mane,
A cobra’s back, a fox’s tail
Tender, defender, loyal
Venomous, always on the run

No one could catch...

Spain, the spiral Barcelona
Kenya, aiding weakened impulses
Mexican salvation in ruins
London, roundabout renegade

...and no one could catch her.
And everyone dared...

In the town of Kalandastan,
You promised an evening of the three passions:
Magnetism, Solar Radiation, and Optimism.

Enough for everyone.
A rattail in my beer.
A junkie priest.
A homeless home.

We are not talking of a second coming.
Or a ravaged revengeful plague.
Or a stroll down a stream.
Or a Kabbahlist’s mystical number.

A monk’s haiku thought
A rebel’s sonnet sword
A devil’s septuplet tongue
An angel’s wasteland edit

And her actions, her verbs, her swollen affection
A rock star without a band, sound, audience
But with all the applause, venue, harmony
She captured me there, inside those walls of that symbolic play.

Action! Cut! Edit...
Exterminate, execute, an exercise.

‘things were much harder then,
we didn’t have money then,
we didn’t have much at all’

And sometimes we were happier
Much more in love
Much more in touch with each other
And we were never alone.

I loved that girl, and she loved the wind
Always moving through me, a slow desert roll
Music from my vanity for our love
Passion screams at my concert, my audience, me:

The fool.

Nadia Part Five

DAWN

Seagulls, a gaggle smear of white-grey on the tan sand stare at you. You pass by behind the scene, an extra on a movie screen and the birds, the theatergoers. Unlike theatergoers, they care not for your drama, your middle, your end of three-part Aristotelian art. You pass; they scatter; they return as the waves remove your footprints.

Sun diamonds shimmer in the distance alerting the cool air to give one last attempt at temperature, and this gives your nose a final refreshing blast, the remainder of the cool air. Your lungs fill as you too feel the struggle, the hopelessness of the day to come.

A wave crashes, an alarm reflector of dawn’s first light. The day has begun.

Nadia Part Four

THE ENTRANCE

Concrete plain, massive, grey, and in the middle an opening: a rotating entrance, people mingle at its mouth, swinging in and out. We met there, the day or should I more accurately state: the evening, at dusk during our setting sun.

You looked very good against the mortar, glowing, a flowered weed climbing through the cracks: majestic, natural and trampled. Against the black and white hues of suits and dress suits, the original costume of the modern slave: distinct and plain, a matching attitude apathetically clothed. We stood staring into the void producing the mediocrity, wondering if we too, were like them? I thought yes, but you, you were different. It was you who cracked the concrete ways of my life; it was you who would.

Nadia Part Three

SCAR

Out there...across the sea— that is where they are... that is where they are... that is where...your mantra for many years.

Why did they leave you?

Who took them away? And there you remained in your twelfth year paralyzed for the remainder of your days. At least some days feel that heavy, you think.

That was the summer you swam every day, all day: body-surfing until your knees scraped raw, and your breath: part salt, part surf. In the tumultuous waves is where you forgot the scar—memory. The waves beat against your fury twisting your body and slamming it on the seabed. This was relief. And when the surf was too low to surf, you swam out sea until you sank. The sinking into the deep azure comforted your scar, and when your air ran out, you sprinted for the surface, air.

Then you’d float on your back and dream, the only time you would. Sleep then was black and unforgiving. There is a comfort in dreams; in knowing you can create new realities. And that is why you would wake before the dawn to swim, to be near the dreams, to be in comfort.

The ocean makes sense; she wraps herself around you, a large salty blanket and a home. She protects and forgives, judgeless: the only cure for the sufferer. A dive into her redeems the sleepless black nightmare, and your emergence through her cool sheen mends.

Nadia Part Two

BLUE

Sitting, you look over the calm blue water as the swells line up bringing in your past, wave after wave.

A dream wakes you into your twelfth year of life. Your aunt and uncle stand above, an aura silhouetted by sick cerulean curtains. Are you in a coffin? It is cold, very cold; drips of sweat dribble off your brow, saline drops trickle through your lashes. Drip. Blink. Drip. Blink.

Pain scrapes tracks across your bones, the hub: your heart. This is unlike anything else, unlike broken fingers, or face kissing shattered windshield spurs, or convulsive radioactive cancer therapy slams—this is loneliness and emptiness.

A green-cerulean wave crashes churning shades of browns and whites into murky smooth ripples, a wet-cement smoothing of the shore. Will the dawn ever break?

Nadia Part One

A WINTER MORNING

Overcast eyes, cloudy and grey, a desolate cool beach morning unsure how the day will begin—and like your eyes, so is your heart. You are a woman.
You wake up before dawn and walk along the cool, dark water’s edge. Waves spray salty mist across the flat newly groomed sand, in your face and on your tongue. Low tide smells of rotting seal corpse, fishy and spoiled, yet refreshing. The smell reminds you of the many mornings when walks transformed into cleansing swims. When waves pounded out your frustration, a mother’s caress, a mother’s tough love, because the water has redeeming qualities, reminiscent cool stinging prickles of salt that burnt off the night-before’s layer of skin.
But today, like those recently, do not follow with a swim. You are a wanderer now, in search of driftwood not to carve nor to store on empty racks inside a tomb, garage. You admire. Where did it come from? Where is it going; or will it be seen again?
Water coats your feet. You never wear shoes and your rolled pant legs stick to your calves, rubbing salty sand up and down as you walk.
A flock of toddler sandpipers run an instinctual choreography in and out with the waves, the dance of their mass, grey-brown reflectors of the dawn. Their little legs so close to the sand, reminds you more of your youth when the earth was closer to you and yet, today the earth and you are closer than ever before.

you must!

you must listen, read and write
you must turn right
you must act like this
you must act like that
you must constantly be on the defense

you must forgive
you must have compassion
you must help
you must need help
you must not be you

you must buy this
you must not buy that
you must buy this

you must consume
you must telephone, fax, email
you must be home when called
you must not be home
you must be the answering machine
you must reply

you must recycle
you must produce, reproduce
you must waste
you must not do this
you must not do that
you must be alone
you must be watching TV

you must not speak until spoken to
you must have a plan
you must be spontaneous
you must be different

you must be different

you must laugh
you must be funny
you must be social
you must be dysfunctional
you must be joking

you must conform
you must want money
you must spend more than you make
you must not look poor
you must be poor
you must let the rich get richer
you must be getting poorer

you must not think
you must think
you must not think out loud

you must use
you must be used
you must choose
you must embellish, lie
you must have choices

you must be horny
you must be having sex
you must sin, lust
you must win

you must believe
you must ask for forgiveness
you must have faith
you must be right

you must escape
you must concede
you must be a prisoner
you must agree

you must fear
you must be sad
you must die
you must be mad
you must live long

you must pay taxes
you must be free
you must sell your freedom
you must give it away
you must not be free

you must be too young
you must be too old
you must be just right

you must never admit you’re wrong
you must enjoy every second
you must be too busy to enjoy every second

you must marry the perfect person
you must divorce
you must suffer
you must be me
you must not be me

you must be tired
you must sleep, dream, wake
you must be wired

you must you must
you must increase your bust
you must be slim
you must diet
you must eat
you must not enjoy food
you must be a vegetarian

you must exercise
you must be lazy
you must have an eating disorder

you must be criticized
you must criticize
you must be the wrong size
you must be circumcised

you must wipe
you must wash your hands
you must brush your teeth
you must not reek

you must breath
you must calm down
you must be angry
you must leave

you must do drugs
you should say no
you must be on drugs

you must scream
you must not be listening
you must must
you must
but do i?

Death, Deception and Cold Water

no longer needed…

they tell me.

need a farce
for an
abstract
capitalist good-
bye:

nothing
personal,
it’s business

an unethical
dis
burse
ment of cold water, relieving blame

there is a big picture
and I am the photographer’s
assistant’s assistant

but my rutted ass needs a lift
a lift to a higher ground, and
sometimes dreams are made
from another’s motivation.

the wall

a wall
about this high
finger high
and not many
make it over

life can be so simple
and so hard to overcome

The squanderer not a wanderer or the grasshopper

not good at saving money
but pages from the daily paper
thrown away too many
gone bys and they are gone
and I am closer to the end
and the grave dirt smells fresh
and I am not done
I haven't begun starting
always chapters full of page ones
or books with chapter ones
and I haven’t even begun
damn this place of fleeting space
should of…why don't you
this ride is near over
this place has almost forgot me
hasn't even had a chance to remember
me know me

Nice day for hunting Indians, doth thou agreest, Walter? Yep. 

the long sad line of mediocrity

we explode balking into this life
a victim of his & hers mediocrity

a creation of momentary bland joy
each escaping their own senses
a struggle between lukewarm emotions
and room-temperature thoughts

oh, it was so intense that both yawned
turned on the nightly news when done
used some night cream
to remove slightly smeared make-up
and in the excitement, tossed their pet rock
then dreamt of your future:

one day our child will be in debt too, they smile
drive an SUV...or a minivan, she chimes in
yes, and the two hour commute to work, bliss
on sundays a confession about the neighbors spouse
or the shortage of clean pressed white
short sleeved shirts in the closet

the constant reminders of a sterile culture:

they'll talk to their friends at a BBQ
about their favorite reality shows
or about the NFL, NBA, MLB -there are no other sports
or yawn, Golf- a good walked ruined, I heard
maybe by then puritan attire will be trendy again,
sure hope so, love those simple whites
and complex blacks, no grey areas to consider
do admit, I look dashing in my grey wool slacks

and soulful patriotism too:
go USA! go USA! into war, over the seas
over here, over there... american flags
and ribbon stickers of all colors
pasted next to the honor roll bumper collage
all made in china

the morals of your maturation process:

we will do our best to ignore our problems
and especially yours, because our baby would never...
promise? pinky swear. okay.

and so it was drawn on that day
your long sad line of mediocrity.

Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird