We die where we sit, whether we’d
admit it or not-
we sit down in our roosts and peck our
days away, click by click,
under the synthetic glow of computer screens
and fluorescent lights-
like messages in scattered bottles,
we are sealed into those airless enclosures,
no sun or touch or nourishment
reaching our innermost words,
our messages locked within us indefinitely-
each line just waiting to be read,
waiting to be enjoyed,
wanting to be understood-
as long as we stay with the current,
there’s hope that we’ll someday be found*

The fears that we think we have are as easily manufactured as the courage that we don’t know that we possess.

Jupiter proves that some storms
never die-
its own gale has raged for countless
centuries
and its own surface lay concealed under a heavy layer of
clouds and gas and deep mystery,
its thousand year infernos fueled by a source
known only to the giant itself,
because no man or woman has ever breached
its skin-
perhaps no one ever will-
it remains a cold and isolated colossus,
alone in its place among its brothers,
with an unknown fury broiling beneath
its mask and
a whirlwind of questions brewing under that painted
facade,
scrutinized and studied and yet still not fully
understood-
it’s only seen from a distance,
never from within-
who would be able to step foot on its
surface?

Trees continue to grow toward the only
direction that they know how, which is up,
with no concern for shape
or aesthetics-
they just grow to where the sun beams each
day, unflinching-
trees can be knotty and craggy and full of
holes, bent and twisted and mangled,
lightning scarred or arrow straight or
unblemished,
knurled, or crooked, or malformed-
but they still grow-
trees don’t remind one another how they
look,
or chide each other about the shape of
their bark, or the twist of their limbs-
they don’t spend days obsessing over
appearances or the depth of their roots-
their united goal is just to inch above the
line to where the sun shines the brightest,
and to keep on moving in that direction-
in life, our mission is to follow the lead of the
sun-
to seek out the place where we’ll be warm,
the place that will allow us to grow-
that will sustain us-
a place where our best interests flourish,
and our roots find water-
locusts latch on, and birds build homes
within-
nature takes its toll, and loggers fell some
long before their proper time-
we harbor and carry many others along the way-
they nest within our arms and we give of our
fruits and ourselves-
many remain, many return, and even more
will abandon us-
but we still grow-
those symbiotic unions exist not to hinder us,
but to help us,
and we invariably help each other-
like trees, we can absorb whatever comes our way
and keep moving in the direction of growth-
and though we may emerge knurled and crooked
and broken, we will still have reached the
crisp air of the open sky-
it’s not about how we make it there,
just that we made it there-
it’s not about how we look after we’ve made it-
just that we’ve made it-
it’s all in the attempt-
when we attempt nothing,
that’s exactly what we gain*

The universe speaks,
for those with the ears to listen-
the universe speaks-
mountains become goals, rising
toward the sky like ambition,
and heat becomes the fire that stokes
the tinder of change-
the universe speaks, when our eyes open
to the flavors of the world,
when our palates are made aware of
the multitude of variation-
the world itself is big,
and we often need to be reminded of this,
as we tend to live small and restricted and
painted into corners-
that sort of paint will never fully dry,
and sometimes our feet will need to get
wet on our way to seek the nearest door-
most of us don’t live the lives that
we want, but rather live the lives that
we were given-
we don’t pursue the dreams that we were
put here to fulfill, but rather make the most
of what we’re dealt,
which is effective to a degree,
but only to a degree-
doing that, and only, that will rob you
of purpose,
and snatch the soul right from under you-
like the letters that form a sentence,
each has its proper place,
and when we don’t feed them,
our lives and truths and meaning
go hungry-
but the universe speaks,
in signs, whispers, and portents,
some obvious, most vague,
but all equally important-
when we choose to listen,
we will know-
and when we know, we will win*

A thousand tiny raindrops
scattered the glass today,
each one representing a thought-
the things beyond the window
morphed into odd forms in the rounded embrace of
those droplets,
much like the effects of a funhouse mirror-
big became small,
long became short,
square became circle,
and each fit perfectly within its teardrop
casing, though twisted and mangled
and misshapen-
each rested within its own womb-
I examined the figures within those droplets,
as plentiful as the thoughts within an hour,
and just like thoughts, they were scattered
and varied-
large,
small,
and fragmented,
each projecting a different perspective,
each as meaningful as its origin-
each raindrop is a thought,
and each thought is a funhouse
mirror-
we are the objects beyond
the glass,
and our thoughts and lives and observations are splintered
into a kaleidoscope of perspectives-
large and small,
long and short,
each with an individualized meaning,
when we take the time to examine them-
each serving a special purpose,
as plentiful as droplets on a pane,
plastered about the glass like a thousand
liquid pearls*

The year was 1988.   I’d spent countless hours begging my mother incessantly in that desperate, nine year old beggary voice…begging for the chance to see Big in the theaters.  I went so far as to cut the picture of it from the film section of the newspaper (it was a big, goofy picture of Tom Hank’s face), and I’d carry it around and show her with the hope of annoying her into taking me to see it.  When she finally did, I loved it then and for many years to come.  I’ve seen the film about 786 times to date, but seeing it again recently after a very long while opened my eyes to a few key elements that a 9 year olds eyes will never see.  The main character, Josh Baskin, wished ‘to be big’; he got his wish, and woke up one morning looking like Tom Hanks.  Most of the movie involved Tom Hanks acting like he was 12, but what I hadn’t noticed before was the emphasis on choices.  I had no idea that the movie was so complex; taken apart, it had some very deep inner workings.

As an adult, the kid found great success working at MacMillan Toys, great love with Susan (the love interest), and a maturity that most 12 year olds don’t possess.  He also earned a pretty powerful conundrum that most kids don’t have to endure; having to choose between continuing a successful adult life, or reverting back to the reality of his youth.  In my opinion, the most powerful scene in the film was when he went back home, in adult form, and witnessed firsthand what he had, and ultimately would, miss out on if he chose the adult path.  The ‘innocence’ of youth, friends, games, and family stared him in the face, and either decision that he made was bound to hurt someone.  It showed that life revolves around choices, great or minor, and though some choices may hurt one person or another, ultimately, you have to make the best decision for you.

He followed his heart and went back to his family and his young self in the end, but his decision to do so was embedded in my head for a few days after I’d watched the movie.  So many of us in life, when confronted with great decisions, freeze up from indecision, and rather than formulate a well-calculated battle plan, we end up making none and floating through life under the mercy of fate.  It takes incredible character to choose knowing that those choices may hurt others, but benefit you.  Hey, if the kid in the film was able to make a sound decision that would affect the lives of everyone around him, then we should all be able to, right?  Twenty-five years after seeing Big, I finally got a sense of the soul of the movie; follow your heart, and you can’t go wrong.   It’s never too late to learn that message.

The discovery of bog bodies is
remarkable-
life trapped in liquid silence for
centuries,
frozen in the moment that they were thrust
into the stillness-
last meals intact within their bowels,
final facial expressions worn like a solemn mask-
there they rest,
nestled within the peat-
encapsulated in that cold and suffocating black
space,
cast violently into the unknown,
and entombed among the secrets of their
lives-
their purpose,
identities,
their names,
their meaning reduced to a shriveled pile of
skin and bones and hair-
their joys, sadness, and their triumphs
lost and scattered amid the sediment-
undisturbed and forgotten,
and stumbled upon purely
by accident-
they become unidentified remains,
their graves, unmarked pools-
under the scrutiny of strangers, they sit-
displayed, studied, and stored away-
an anonymous pile of bones, and skin,
and hair-
thrust into stillness,
scattered hopes strewn and lost within
the sediment-
it has to be assumed that those lives
had merit-
what song do their souls sing?*

The morning swelled in my head
like a tempest,
and lightning splintered through my brain
like rivers divide land on a map-
the coffee was thin that morning,
and yet the tension was thick-
it hit me that my dreams only thrived
on paper-
paper dreams are sometimes the worst
kind,
a visual tease that’s all too easily crumpled,
and all too easily forgotten-
like old receipts, they are often stuffed into
pockets to collect darkness and dust,
discarded into a stack of unfinished old dreams,
or simply buried or thrown away, tossed
into the disposal of days and weeks and
stress-
the coffee was weak,
but my resolve was strong-
paper, for all its frailties, can become
airplanes, and soar-
they mold into cranes, and shapeshift
and bend and become whatever the
eye can envision-
paper populates legendary libraries and they house
volumes of some of the greatest thoughts
and dreams and hopes ever recorded-
paper dreams can become a beautiful
life-
the morning swelled and the thunder
collided with the clouds like a scrum,
and it hit me with the power of the rivers
that divide the maps-
paper dreams can become the best kind,
proof that the mind is busy at work and
play,
a visual tease,
an appetizer that gets you salivating
and hungry,
heightening your drive and stimulating
your passion,
leading to a brilliant main course-
it’s easily crumpled, but just as easily folded
into a neat square, ready to be taken
with you-
those timeless dreams, just waiting to be unfolded
and read aloud into the welcoming of the
universe,
ready then to be fleshed out with the force
of a tempest*

The footsteps were slow; whoever the guy was, he wasn’t in a hurry to get to where he was going.  It sounded like he was just stumbling around back there kicking bottles, taking his sweet time, maybe looking for something.  Trouble, maybe?   Was it just one guy?  I swear, I couldn’t even be sure.  I didn’t know and I didn’t give a shit.  I knew for a fact that I was going back there though, but Sally had to know…I wasn’t sure if she could see me through that pitch black, so I grabbed for my phone…and the damn thing got knocked out of my hands just as soon as I could grab it.  Maybe it was the wind, or the thunder, or my heart pounding the hell out of my chest, but whatever it was, it muffled the footsteps of the guy that was standing over me, tall as shit and screaming like a fucking wild animal.  The bastard snuck up and caught me from behind.  I should’ve been able to smell him coming if it weren’t for the rain; he smelled like a hot bucket of piss, shit, and coppery blood.  The phone flew out of my hands and into the rain a few feet in front of me, and I flung myself up to meet the guy head on.  Rage and fear and adrenaline filled my veins as I lunged at the guy and sent him stumbling backward.

I followed after him and landed a string of solid blows to the guy’s head, and managed to put him flat on his ass in the parking lot.  He went down hard like a sack of bricks; I stood over the schmuck and demanded to know what the fuck was going on, and why the hell he came at me.  All he did was scream, man; from the look of him, I wasn’t the first guy to kick his ass that night either.  Even in the dark, I could see that his face was beat to hell and covered in blood, and he had a gash the size of my fist peeking out of the front of his shirt.  I didn’t know what to make of it, I really didn’t, and I didn’t have too much time to think about it.  Just as soon as I got him on his ass, he was crawling up and making another go at me.  I hadn’t forgotten about the guy in the back, and wasn’t about to get double-teamed by these bastards, so I pulled out my pistol and whacked the guy over the head with the butt of it.  I wasn’t trying to kill the guy, just keep him from getting the drop on me.  I bashed him good, man…and yet he kept on coming.