I lob my own entrails
without consequence or accountability,
as if they are profound,
as if they aren’t useless,
as if they are art.
Squandering breath has become
a hobby and a habit.
Each breath measures part
of a poem that will never be born.
Is it birth control or abortion?
Impatience fosters itself.
If I am part of the Buddha’s river,
I am part of balancing the flow,
I am where white meets black,
I am the grey intersection of absolutes.
(top: ianfitter.com; Buddha: balihand.com)
Brussels sprouts heaven:
Roasted with garlic and salt.
Somewhere, a frog barks.
(top: whatwereeating.com; bottom: foodnetwork.com)
Tea sips hot and sweet.
Savoring closes my eyes.
The Asian black loves.
(top: webmd.com; bottom: filipek.genfolio.com)
I float, not breathing—
too early for that.
I roll around against
this and that warm bulkhead.
I hear what I will later call
the ocean, who will bring back
these memories of sea, woman, ship.
The Mother comforts
the mother I am in.
I hear Her voice and
will never be the same.
My buddy John could be a roofer. In this post, he hits several nail square on the head. ~jrs
Americans don’t resent the wealthy, nor do people around the world. Most know they will never be rich. They don’t care. What they do expect is to have economic hope, a sense that they will be free from fear of economic insecurity.
There is flexibility in defining hope and expectation, which are different around the world. Some want more, expect more, and are fortunate enough to get it. There is, however, no flexibility in hopelessness. Americans expect, or used to, that hard work would provide freedom from economic fear. They knew that being an American meant there was opportunity for the willing worker. Americans do not expect hopeless economic conditions. That’s part of being American. They expect that the government understands its role to provide the structure, both economic and cultural, under which they retain the rights granted by God, to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And that…
View original post 1,931 more words
Awake: cannot sleep.
The deck beckons; I am rapt.
Hello, Polaris.
Wet snap rolling through;
my hat loosens but stays on.
The rain kisses me.
(top: katu.com; happy feet: blogs.reed.edu)
Long ago I shook your hand
and told you how much
I love your work.
I wanted to tell you
what little I know about women
has come from my wife
and your carefully erected words.
I wanted to tell you how many
life lessons I’ve found illuminated there,
but someone pressed from behind
and, as you signed,
the fleeting moment flew.
The sheer emotional key of it
makes me grateful for that spark.
I wanted to be master of my native tongue,
runed into the page with my ballpoint chisel.
Your smile implicitly offered permission
to be what I already am.
(Ms. Olds: sharonolds.net; tools: blog.adennichols.com)
I lean, very still.
A young Junco, unaware,
hops across my foot.
Community is
all of us, hearts in concert,
living together.
(dark-eyed junco: pacificnorthwestbirds.com; junco feeding cowbird: coastodian.org)
Arise with the sun;
Gasoline gets me to work.
Today is Earth Day.
The audiobook is live!
Narble Furt Lives 