11:11am on 11-11-11

Too many fragmented edges to hold, of shards kept hidden in phases of old.  Tiny cuts across palms, giving alms, holding resentment and my breath.  I sit and stare and glare outside, wondering how many moments until death.  This? That?  41 years from now with nothing left?  Visas to plan.  Cars not functioning.   Debit cards reported as stolen that I’m still holding.  What the fuck happened to this world that it became so complicated and layered?  I want simple and peace and quiet, and I am willing to leave the continent or the decade if someone is able to build me a time machine.  Too many balls in the air, whitening the few strands that I have left.  Mistrust of all authority, with meaning bereft, purposeful theft.  Weather patterns seeming extreme with videos to prove.  Replicas with Ikea frames hanging in the Lou’vre.  Begin with me to breath deeply.  Begin to give thanks amidst stress.  Help me fight on all night long when I felt at day break I had nothing left.    Too many things to try to remember.  To many appointments, to do lists, and things that break down.  It is a beautiful day in the neighborhood, and I am donning my best cardigan in brown.  Magazines display people I don’t know.  Movies in theatres I blissfully have no clue.  The yard got mowed, but heavy is the load, and sometimes I just want to be through.  Everyone has their things.  I probably have simplicity compared to most or at least some.  Dreams eventually come true or are given up and I don’t know what to say when asked where I am from.  Sitting beside water without an agenda, with only the still to greet my forehead, I might better grasp what was intended.  Rather than the frantic rush in which everything feels upended.  Befriended by a few, known by many, there is a red headed lady who dresses in green.  She talks with me and helps me see the calm when I think that it cannot in fact be seen.  I love the inspirational second, the creative minute, and the expressive hour that both save us and enslave us to the system that also gives us the written release.  The writing sometimes with rhymes feels the most alive, when the heart feels the most deceased.  Stand up.  Push on.  Sally forth, and carry on.  The show must run its course, and we might have all summer long.  A key can lock the psyche from further damage.  A joke can add an extra wall.  Something said can erase a previous advantage, and some keys break off then fall.  While the little hands reach for bread in the courtyard, and the birds wait for the scraps in the trees, I think about things like parking in driveways and how disease is quite simply dis ease.  This please and thank you might be enough to get someone excited, but the fact of the matter remains.  Pleasures flow swiftly, and water tends to settle in the basins of pains.  But the surface from the sky can still reflect an image, that is held only for a moment before it floats.  And that image might imprint itself in the mind surrounded by moats.  The draw bridge might be fortified, and the walls guarded by marksman, with the treasure hidden deep beneath.  The eyes might be wide from being denied, and from a match to firmly clenched teeth.  The fists may shake at the horizon.  Frustrated screams may echo across the hills to a paradise that cannot be reached.  Under it all, I hear a faint call, though I miss the lesson, by now, I should teach.  Let my hands come to rest on the fountain.  Let my eyes close with no need to open again.  Let my heart beat with the steady rhythm of a leaky pen that pours out the dreams of all men.  Finding the pull in the push, and finding the draw in the day.  The docket feels full, the mind is mush, with a blinding rate of decay.  This world or the next bills will be paid.  Debts will be gathered and a little credit given.  It is all a part of the mixed up thwarted attempt we each make at living.  Links in the chains may be rusty, but they hold, in the tow, up the hill.  I think when it rains and washes stains down drains, I will remain sitting still at the window sill still.  Be one of the few who actually makes a difference and laughs unlike me as I argue with my split functions.  Know that dreams make a difference to children and a different kind of a difference to adults.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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1 Response to 11:11am on 11-11-11

  1. Ned Buskirk says:

    there’s no way you wrote this in a minute.
    “dis ease” – yes.

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