Just One

But that alas, my friend, is likely too much to hope for. They say that is all it takes to move a train. Sweet sycamores that be some fine bearings. Gotta lock 'em up or they'll roll away without you. Indeed they will. The wind will take them. Places you hadn't thought. Places you hadn't wished. Places you can't buy tickets to. You only say you want to go because you've never been. Have you ever thought that maybe there's a reason you can't buy your way there? Well yes, you say. Precisely because it has been overlooked. Because it's too hard to get to. Because they can't reach you there. Well, then you think. But thinking leads to bleeding. And soon there's nothing left up awash in all that has gone down. So thank you Pete Merrill. Get on your way Carmichael Andrews. You were never there and smartly so. How 'bout a bush instead? Believe in yourself and you'll get there. Even though you never will.

Only to Be Remade

I had meant well. I had. It likely wasn't what it seemed. A thought lost forever. So what now? How to tell and be and say and write and do without writing or doing or saying or telling. The kid was right. We don't belong here. I had the thought. Dismissed. And then again. To what end if we never listen. To what end if we do? Both unknown. Both in the dark. Both to lay what they will. But one assured. It can't be fixed. No, things are too late for such. It cannot be copied having no mold. It cannot be restored. Such would be a breach of faith. To what then? Completely lost?

Somewhere Inbetween

That last one is gone. And sad that. of the greatest and most poignant, to me anyway. And in such, itself poignant. Not replaceable or re-buildable. One of its kind. And on pondering I found so much that I had not thought. No longer blurred by so much darkness. Not lost in a sea of evil. Uplifting. A creation apart. There hidden, as was believed. Hidden in the plainest of sight. And that is the crime. Timing? Meaning? yes. Likely. And then what to wear? Having nothing appropriate unprepared. And sadly by choice.
In a deadlock. Possibly only purely imagined. Between what is fair and what is wanted. The one driving some semblance of decency the other only a dream. Not something my friend, everything. Without a role, remaining left on stage. Hoping to become a prop. For it is half the battle. That is true. Even then not knowing the scale or the forces involved. A box within a box. And I suppose with a theoretical limit. No matter the darkness of the sky or the depth of the rain.

And yet, there they are. Changed and grown. In some ways nearly the same as they have always been. And so it may be that He sees them. As a climber. Seeking the top. Never summited, by them at least. A path hard to follow. Hard to be found. With so many distractions. And yet they climb. Forget their novice in path finding. Forget that their path is inevitably treacherous. Forget them grasping for holds on the rock face. Forget them lost in the brush and the wood. Forget them backing oft to find a better way. They climb. These are not they which forget the summit. Nor return to the valley. They climb. Slow. In danger. They climb. That is all He sees. As that is what they see. Their path foolish to some from a better vantage? Surely. But such deny the climber his own vantage. For no matter the perspectived view, that alone, his reality. A better way. Yes. But God is no bus-driving tour guide. No, He too is a climber.

...But Only If You Think About It

Grass is green. Trees are big. Time is short. Large quesadillas can kill you. Fourier had some good ideas. Fire is hot. People are small. You are alone. Work is a bore. Boars live in the wild. The wilderness needs more of your time. Penguins rush. You can only go so fast. Life as a kangaroo would be bouncy. Mosquitoes are annoying. Planes fly. You'll never be the same. Swedish pumas bring happiness. Lightning never strikes the same place twice. The cell phone towers are down. Rockets are really fast. Unity is rare. This is peace. Differential equations are easy. You'll never eat guacamole again. You'll figure out the use. Light has mass. The world is flat. Tomatoe is spelled with an e. Cranky bats will keep you up at night. You can be in love. Purses have reshaped our world. The earth is getting hotter. Some things need to be said. You are failing. The weather is beautiful. People mean poorly. You can make this happen. You feel sick. Doors swing open. Bars shut you in. Someone means the world to you. Flags should be flown. 2+2 is 4. Apples grow oranges. Arrows are straight. My dresser has three drawers.  And then all that changes. ...or doesn't. Life is good.

Things I Wish I Knew

Not the original thought, no. Not what I had intended. Quite possibly instead a bowl of cherries dropped in a sheet. Bound in the four corners. The intent. The struggles. The wide awareness and the barrenness and the nakedness and the utter need. Plagues. And ambush. But still water to the traveler and shade on the weary. Who then? And why across the nations? Out into the abyss not turning back to see the blue fade. Sincere. Beautiful claim. That is the difference. Not tires or fires. No shock to the system. No. Depth. Covered and paved and sealed. No?    I say true. And it isn't three. I see that. And then, lost in the forest. Bear tracks all around. The same? Even a bit? Or just dunes of spice and rolls... It was the cause. And is again. How to get to the Yukon? Not much of a question. You can't miss it, but you'll need to know when to bring your coat. The answer apparently, is always. And that is the difference. A find ever so deep in the shaft. And it isn't the darkness that brings you there. This is the why. So then maybe you do go on pretending you've got your cabin on.

No Pictures, No Service

And you in the pink, you think it's enough. But it's not really. In fact not quite remotely. You'll wait for your own. In the dark. Between some bushes or under a few layers of scuttle brush. It's not as if this all didn't happen during the day. But here you are in the dark. Yet again. Waiting on some three cornered equestrian to save your hide. Well the hide for saving isn't just your own. Funny that. You open up a can of peaches to find that half the barrel has emptied to the sea. Or at least that's what you fear to find. Among all that glass and concrete. Or at least you might think so.
But you can't really go back. The walls you built only creates a look of compassion. But salt creeps in. Rust and cottered linen. And there through the trees you find no friend but a fiefdom waiting to take the B2 bombers you had set aside. They're not supposed to go in bin 4. You wish that nothing went there. Not that things don't belong there for you perhaps, but that isn't their place. It's rather more waiting a return from the Narrows. Safe and sound though possibly battered a bit.
Do you see it? Is it vaguely there? Have you grabbed it by the shoulder or have you found it gone in that darkness you found. Dammed and misdirected. Moss to the reef.
Or do you, as is said, see it faintly, dimly, ever so slightly. If so, then away with the rest. Cut the string. It reduces to a point mass. With the other free, portable for one hand.

Awaiting to sleep.

Back On Stage

Bah. Like me I suppose. And away and waiting and thinking and hoping. The rest isn't worth the three licks it takes to get to the center of the tootsie pop or any other manner of... shall we say, sucker. Appropriate. But I do. More than a desert. Or a bad party.  You;ve noticed that too I see. Possibly the chasm is easier to explore in the dark. That is what it is want. If else then things would be different. Lucky charms spilling out over piles of dimetrodons and magnetic gold. A fun idea... like others. And a bus. But you run the risk of running the red. Which when run, well a few more than the banana boxes will be in shambles. And if your friends don't get there quick but assured that the authorities won't let them, later. Caught?  ...no. That's not the problem.  It's the hindering. The purposed conclusion of all that was purposed. The failure to continue. Failure in truth.   Failure.     ...right.
Not sure I trust your definition or your judgement. Ha that! You may be right. An then there's Venus. Bright as the sun, round as the moon. Like a magnet in a box. Hope really? Again the same.  Right.
See it.

Empty House

Definitely not a plate of nachos. Though the dying candle adds a little something. Official now? Almost possibly. And yet for weeks nothing has said so as the other ninety seven percent of days. Put whatever you like in it. A dog, a bear. Some manner of imagined leprechan. Fair; you can add to or take away from the level of creep but what is...     ...just stays. You can't have thought otherwise. Not meanly, but rightly. You may be able to throw over that mountain, but I just can't. No, not half that far. So, now, frightfully more than ever.

Leeward

Wanted a notice. Something a little more than normal. Warranted given the distance and fairly level terrain between. It's colder now though, inside brings me chills. Not dark but unwanted nonetheless. Oh indeed my friend. Those are the times. The times when fear may not be unwarranted and hope may be in season. A sketch here, a draft there. They all bring back and forget the things upon the mind. Though they too of themselves are forgotten.

And what then? What is this all in light? I pray it be a blossom and not a glacier of blue; stoic, looming and constant. The one I know. The other, would. And clear through the ice may find no less occasion than unsettles on the mind. It happened, not happens. Both lies and to that end defiles.

The Road to Hell

I haven't forgotten you. I may have come close. That edge back there a few miles was pretty distracting I will admit. It was. But I haven't forgotten. And I don't intend on doing so anytime soon.

Has it Been So Long?

Sitting underneath the way in the dimming light you'd think that every passer by might notice what has come to be so tangebly obvious to you. So pressing on your mind. No. Further more on your soul. The spirit. The body. Neither can release from it.  A compression of all that is you. Confined and at bay. The ability to talk without speaking. To listen out what will be said. No chance for freedom. No brush with success. Hoping to live. Just once. A moment longer than could be imagined. But a moment none the less. Like the sun, but the moon. Far better in fact, as you are probably familiar with.

You know what I want? A day. Just one day. Nothing else will matter and all will be now. Here. This is no errant wish or flock. Hold the sinking back, the wrench in your works. Stop looking for a red sky. Stop with the endless queries. The listlessness. The lifely commute. Oh to show you what was and could be. To make it all.

To be what is.

The Moon

There are those who try. There are those who don't. There are those who have their own. And there are those who have yours. There are those who want. There are those who share. There are those who know it. And there are those who care not for it. And there are those who must show. There are those who just feel it. There are the quiet and the meek. There are the boisterous and cut. There are many. And then there is you.

Dear Jane

You can think that this is a letter of some sort of apology if you will. But well, you can take that as you may, if you may. It;s all you seem to want anyway. Attention. More than I or any man with any character would give. Not much for pets any way. I don't want to own one. That isn't what I'm in the mood for. Nor hope I that it ever will be. You miss who I am if you think you can push me into it. I just want to eat my cheerios in peace. And you can eat yours. Dori proved my point. And then somehow, I feel sad for you. Never getting what you want because you don't have the patience for it. But sometime, it will be seen in you. When you're too tired to keep pushing it like you do. To tired to keep playing or pretending and you just stop and let yourself be who you are. Which possibly is the real reason I like you best asleep. So give yourself a chance. It'll come.