i have been waiting to put down this shovel and sit on the muddy grass.  grueling hands grumble not used to this kind of work that surely my friends’ fathers were natured to.  instead i and a generation of youth escaped under green blinks of cursor and curious’er tappity tap tap.  i can smell the autumn air, potpourri of tired leaves colored with some bruised and other some ripened apples tossed on tired bundles, piles now burning down a year’s worth of accumulated forgotten promises.  crows sit on branches come to conduct me to work this hole i have dug for myself.  soon enough you may envelop me and send me away, friends.  sooner than enough for me but maybe not soon enough for you.  i am done but only momentarily.  i do not know how to stop.  with every breath i exhale, with every shove then kick of blade i exhume.  it does not stop.  nor i.  when is deep enough when depth cannot be measured?  where here grows nothingness next there grows somethingness and on the sum it cradles my infancy.  i shall find you but not here where you are not and when you are already there.  first i will dig myself up.  and then next you.  but i will.  never stop.


sometimes i wonder.  i wonder if i were you who i would be?  where would i be?  when would i be?  were i you would i love me?  or would i feel nothing?  what kind of days might i have?  would i still feel the same about life and friends and love and life?  would i no longer dream of waking up to you if i were to wake as you?  would i worry your worries and cry over your sorrows and laugh at your humors and would it be queer to feel your flows and ebbs as par my natural course?  would i get up in the mornings still wondering where you are and whether words from you were going to find me in my inbox?  would i look down at myself and be aroused?  i wonder if you follow me.  do you?  would i get in your car and find it strange that the stations are not in the same place on the radio as in my own car.  would i listen to your music and know the words and sing along the way you do?  were i you would your shoes fit my feet?  and would i find it awkward trying to balance in them?  if i were you is it inappropriate were i to gently caress myself?  and would it be strange were i looking into the mirror wondering why i can see you staring back and not me?  would i even know i were you or would i just be me being you with no mind of distinction or difference?  would i just cease to be me with no way of getting back?  i wonder.


here on the surgery table under the tin capped incandescents there lingers the lungfuls of purpled dust motes.  outside there are too many. is too much.  but inside more so than all else so little left remains.  bone and sinew wrap in desperate defense protecting a muscle which when opened to the airy whispers and delicate caresses needs no ward.  there is no doctor who can file and crack and break away this barrier to lay in heaps the bone-tendon-sinew mass which now wraps around, strangling in child-acting-motherly embrace and lay it as heap to our side.  scalpel in hand might we auto-lacerate and sop up in buckets our flood of starved blood and let in with hungry gasps breathless reality to find under the flickering sun conductor to our cadence and trill to a new rhythm that time can only rest aside and wait while eternity ticks its ways down toward nothing.


Here this morning under the dying Autumn sun the bus rocks over gravel slick roads and fluorescents flash steadfastly over the slated cherry slumbering eyes all while a metal bird chirps excitedly to the rear.  We call this something. A life. A routine. A ritual. An exit.  I wish I could tell my child this is all right. But how come?  Everybody is on a shoestring, hamstrung into a bus where we grit our way no different than those that once creaked and cracked and broke on once our ironic laden rennaisainced oceans. How come? Can you tell me the difference between this world and a death wrought on flowery treachery of servitude?  It matters little this that answer, the key to that lock-in-step thought is nothing next to this: that I am already free to think as simply as I breath and to embrace as humbly as I may even as this day that cools under the shade of this our modernity also warms contentedly to this the beat of our unimagined and simply real humanity.

And if you still cannot get off at the next stop then listen carefully to that tin brittle bird in the back because it is no bird as much as it is the creak and the grind of metal on metal, the scrape against casing that bullets you down to the dry well upside and inside out in Murakami form.  Time to get up and get out.  And remember your time now is no more than a monkey face and some wrinkles done beautifully under a mop of gorgeous hair.  Smile.

Inanity: Found

There are times when even I must wonder about my own self and the security of my sanity in a world that to me seems best described as more wonderful imagined in the boundless confines of my cerebellum than in the infinite variety of reality.  To wit:

A week or so ago I was on one of my morning runs when I saw a bit of poster with the words “FOUND!” and a picture of handsome chap of a dog with a telephone number prominently listed below it.  Now you dear reader, I will presume, may already have digested this chunk of information and come forth with in no haste but to a rock solid and irreconcilably logical conclusion that I will shortly reveal I sailed right past.  I thought then at that moment how excited the child must have been to have finally had their best furry friend back that they then proceeded to replace all their LOST! posters with FOUND! posters.  And more so, they even left a telephone number so citizens such as myself might call them up to congratulate them and tell them how grand it is indeed to have found what was once lost.  And dear reader, and you are ever so dear are you not since you are indeed reading my blog, do not fret as I did not call said child, but if I had I would have shared with them my excitement for their reunion even while I thought to learn them a bit about how others might perceive them as off their rocker in sharing in such a public and indiscriminate a manner and even though I find such actions completely defensible in a manner reserved for universal logics and other such truths.  In a word, I would have called them up because they are, to me, a child after my own heart.

Forward to two days back when I saw a similar poster along GreenLake.  But this time I turned to my friend and mentioned that it was the second such poster I had seen.  And of course, in the intervening days since my first encounter I still felt oddly compelled to call them to congratulate them even though I felt admittedly awkward to do so.  More over, my only additional thought from the first encounter was that these posters were not for me but for all those other dog lovers who they feared would continue to fret about a wayward pet and wished to inform them that they could now rest assured that all was well.  Alas my friend, who it seems is a more mature and worldly person than I, informed me that such posters were put up by people who had found a lost pet and not by an owner who had been since been reunited with a lost pet.  Not till then had I seen into the mirror and realized there was another side, a juxtaposition of sorts of two roles.  To my mind it is such a subtle thing.  Both are finders.  One is celebrating the reunion.  One is trying to evince a reunion by leaving their phone number.   Sublimely deviated really are they not?

It is on days like this when my world seems so different than everyone else’s.  And the next thing I know people will tell their sky is really blue and clouds truly white, not the pin-striped skies and polka-dot clouds that I see.  In some ways I might learn to acquiesce myself of this view of the world but only as long as stop signs continue to taste like hot cinnamon firebomb candy balls.