SIDEWAYS EIGHT PROJECTS

Reconciliation does not come
Outside of an inkling of fear
Suppressed
Unless the wound
Is of such a unique nature
That it could not arise again
Even if fully intended.
Who am I kidding?
Wounds can be reopened
In the perfect storm
In spite of the toughest scar tissue.
What makes the difference
Is who we allow
To see
The scar
And who we are sure to cover it up around.
Reconciliation
Takes a bit of faith at least
A lot of strength at most
And at least one person who
Is well adept
At building bridges.
Birth is a reconciliation with our own life,
Death, with God.
Every breath that passes in between,
Is an opportunity to be reconciled,
To every living thing
That we cross paths with,
The ripples based on degree of separation,
And the bridges we find
And build
When no one is watching.

There is nothing to escape, and there is nothing to find.
It is within, though we are often without, spending unending
Months of our live blind. Coming to grips with my own end
Has been a daily exercise for years: letting go of the self, letting go of the fears. We are, and perhaps ‘what’ IS the meaning of life.
That we live at all is a miracle unfolding in flesh. Worn fingertips, yellowing teeth, interrupted sleep, hot flashes beneath. In this world, our only, will come a time in which an event so catastrophic, so all encompassing, so overwhelmingly powerful, and so widespread, that simply before and after will suffice without qualifiers. Such is an individual life. Such is mine. Such is yours. Which picture do you prefer? Would a time machine erase the choice altogether? Watch me fumble. Watch me falter. Watch me fail. Do, fail, reflect. Learn, grow, DO! Up in the air wafts the peace that surpasses all understanding. Down stream is the sand from beneath your toes. Breathe. My eyes hurt, as do yours. My ears are failing, as are yours. My life is before and after, as is yours.

Regal sacraments frame Spanish mountains within the memory of a Chevy Cheyenne frame. Riddles wrapped in enigmas, his plainly spoken game. Ferris’ tower looks down upon two letters, one from the man, and one from her. I stare at this screen, unprotected from the memory that is a blur. What tests are we intended to pass? What tests are we supposed to fail? The how and why are worth more than the grade, and yet we’re both supposed to sail. Lost touch. Distant mind. Cunning thought that is running blind. Dipping the grilled muenster on sourdough into the tomato bisque seeking a lesser comfort than the removal of doubt, while sipping sweet tea to complete me in less than an hour though, I’ve no idea what it is all about. I have it clear upstairs, but the basement is flooded beneath, and no one but me seems to care that dreams have been replaced by grinding teeth. Twist this story to fit your bent, and you may sell papers but haven’t yet. Be a storyteller through and true, and people will gather to hear your voice by choice. The light and warmth of the flame and the words, will shake the heavens of their cynics, and the branches of their birds. Can I bring anything but myself the boy asks, wishing he could be the man. He wants to be heard, and for someone to understand. Authenticity in Gotham City, and true value, minus the hardware, online. Distance prevails over internet stales, and this one chance has gone fine. Breathe during self imposed deadlines, and smile when it’s not your fault. The old gold is held in the vault, but the key is in the pecan chocolate malt. Read the satisfaction surveys, and look on the horizon for the match. We come together now and zen, to talk in a mellow patch. Begin to release the end plan. Right now. Release it and look ahead. She chose him, while he chose her, and they’re both better off going to bed.

“It’s been a long time” says Sam reaching to the depths of his soul, My heart whispers to my body that it will never grow old, I imagine the Taiga in winter, and a trapper’s worn bowl. Waiting for change as I Cooke in the kitchen. Waiting for more as I lay in the den. A change is gonna come as long as I’m listening, ready to bring page to pen. What then? Spiraling stained glass, and rice over fresh powder, or cold nosed chocolates in desolation? We seek our selves in the journey, and our past in the now. Our dreams are set in the future, and our ideals set in the vow. Our messages reflect the inner workings, and our remarks out of the heart’s overflow. Each of us waiting for more hours of light than dark, in order that we may start to noticeably grow. Some trees have life. Some have smooth barkless patches from brown leather belts preparing for weak zip lines in reenactment of James Bond scenes. Some trees sit in window sills waiting for the south facing shine. Some trees bear the carvings of hearts, two sets of initials, and two simple words: be mine. Some say I’m yours. Some say I’m fine. All is not lost, but truth lies in more than wine.

These days of seeking the death of the ego,

Putting to rest the I that says I blank,

Seeing the miraculous in the mundane where we go,

While filling the proverbial tank.

These days of seeking the wink on the horizon,

That speaks more than words ever could,

Seeing the old give way to the new and wisen,

Knowing time’s experience brings the understood.

These days of staying up until its early,

Formulating the loss and hurt into words,

Waking up, walking to the door surly,

Only to discover three little birds.

These days that dreams die before us,

Only to join that river of hope,

Knowing the idea of giving more was,

Careening off that slippery slope.

These days of perceived elegance in the dust bowl,

Of palpable beauty that transcends the bloody mud,

Give way to speechless slices of time’s toll,

Complete awe, and the emotional flood.

Forgive me.

Learn to live with me.

World, I see you,

Moreso, you see that I am merely half a drop,

Attempting to collect with others

In a dogged puddle until the next rain washes us

All away.

These days the all is gaining,

The I is waning,

The brags fall short,

And the to do lists grow.

These days amidst the fast pace that begs noticing,

The revolutionary thought runs slow.

Stillness and quiet,

Kill this need to riot and destroy,

And replace it with and need to create and to love.

These days I breathe with my eyes closed,

Feeling the shine on my face,

The self becomes faulty and super imposed,

And I am left weeping with grace.

Good night you country boys of the old confederacy,

You kings of dominion!

These days give way to evenings and mornings again,

Eventually to death alone.

These days words seem incomplete,

And action seems overgrown.

Compassionate thought fills second story windows,

Humility can keep the basement from the flood.

And the sinew in you can begin those

Days to come with exuberant life in the blood.

This is that moment you will look back on.  A definitive one that changes the pace of your breath here and now.  How many of these moments is one person afforded?  How many connections that truly matter can we hold?  The grains of sand sift through our dusty fingers and we watch them gather on the ground below us.  A seemingly obsequious moment for the anonymous fanhood we each hold dear and completely in confidence within the heart’s thick walls.  Can you begin to tell me that you are any different?  Can you claim a unique vantage point that has never known desperation or loneliness? Everyone has thought less of themselves and too much of themselves at times that were unwarranted.  Living in number five would be wonderful if there were such and opportunity.  My body is tired but not yet able to sleep.  I have time to think about these moments and let them wash over me before I can comprehend, let alone judge them.  Lids heavy.  I wish you happiness, fulfillment, and connection.  True, deep, meaningful, lasting, impacting, memorable, unique, mutually beneficial and challenging connection.    

Silhouettes frame insomniac thoughts dancing across the moonlit ceiling,

No regrets is a name we give to romantic loss when its too raw to discuss the real thing,

Lips quiver in rapid meditation while eyes dart to the foreground from the mind,

Taking sips to deliver us  from the well of memories we can’t seem to leave behind.

The prints on my fingers linger over the keys while steeped in thought,

I may have a tenacious spirit, and an iron will, but it isn’t wrought.

If one isn’t smitten with what is written, perhaps some other will see its worth,

Else its worth nothing, and the first one was right, as this could be our last night on earth.

Paddle around the bend in the river, discover what lurks there which was hidden,

Excel beyond the limitations the critics have placed, and face the world that is forbidden.

We were meant for more than most of what meets our eyes and ears,

Time waits for no one, heals some wounds, plodding forth in relentless years.

My palm on the glass feels the warmth of the sun, and projects it within to my heart,

My heart feels the warmth of reconciliation, and cannot help but call it art

It’s 12:26am and I am still unable to go to bed.  Despite interest in the Avengers, and the Foreign Service Officer Test, I would rather have nodded off at 8:30pm.  How does this keep happening? Caffeine can’t always be to blame.  Feeling absolutely exhausted, yet being unable to pass out, has got to be one of the most consistently frustrating experiences there is.  Prayer, meditation, contemplation, and heart ache all benefit our toughness.  Being tough can be slowly eroded by the impact of an accrued sleep debt.  Men become tantruming infants if the lapse becomes long enough.  Selfishness eventually becomes our wanton counterpart.  Coked up lawyers and alcoholic cops will understand from whence I speak.  People who have lived small comfortable and stable lives will not.  Some ways of those with more of an artistic disposition, and lot in life will forever be mysterious and pitied by those who have always known exactly what they were here after in the hereafter.  The pied piper sits on Sarah Polley’ s doorstep and screams the names of her family members.  The singular problem is that I dare to dream big.  Speaking languages in foreign lands, taking pictures of smiling faces who are about to be destroyed, and guessing the wrong puzzle content on wheel of fortune, are merely three things I can be found doing on idle weekdays.  If I sit below the Spanish moss in Savannah, I can hear the poetic whispers of mild tempered ghosts and transcribe them.  If I sit on a rocky outcripping looking out over the gorgeous Shenandoah Valley, I can dedicate my life to silence and kill the ego which dares to laugh.  So, be with me in this adventure.  Write and read the things which feed the soul.  Listen to that which uplifts, benefits, and enriches the intention behind our very existence.  Dream with me while awake for the lack of sleep, and be humbled by my shortcomings for the sake of retribution.  This climate is charged.  This clock is ticking.  This smile is pretend.  I will play along, in the hopes that it becomes real.  Thank you for the water mark, and the third cookie that was left.  Sometimes we chip away at the foundation, and sometimes it chips away at us.  The roots prevent the erosion, as well as the complete lack of rain.  I am able to see the cycle headed toward me, but I don’t seem to be able to avoid a collision that depletes my chances of having a normal life with a soul like mine.

She tries.

She does.

The night pours forward like a wand reclaiming its magic, and words fall as infinitesimal dew droplets from the sky; impossible to catch them all, though I must try.  The kettle’ s undergarments are rusted but character driven.  The goals for which I’ve striven are poured out over the slate like the water from the kettle being unclaimed as vapor.  Some dogs whine at the door for attention without thinking to nudge it with their nose to see if it’s really closed.  Others curl into a tight ball, back to society, sleeping, as though they already know.

She tries.

She does.