February 2012
The chorus of the birds said spring but I had been fooled before and I was not ready to trust them now.
He would offer no excuses for being what he was and no promises that he would be anything else.
He was a pioneer in the underbrush of her love.
When you have been sated by everything that this world has to offer then you know that it is time to leave.
The tide lapped over her naked body like ashes over a freshly filled grave.
There is always a way, just not always the one we have chosen.
With each word he built his dream as though the mere breathing of words were magic and he could bring her to life, for as he knew too well loving was an action, to love a verb.
It still lingers, the long night, as I keep waiting for the sun to climb up higher into the sky each day. Spring will come, I know that, and yet as evening stretches its tendrils across the ceiling above, I wonder to whom the stars whisper, to whom do they beckon, whose voices are those that I hear attenuated across the parsecs, calling me, inviting me to wander deeper into the vast darkness.
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Just waiting for opportunity to knock ‘cause the doorbell’s broken.
The girl was a trainwreck, true, but a beautiful trainwreck and he, he would settle for all the broken pieces that littered the tracks.
Always look opportunity in the eye; never check its teeth.
He tried to live in the moment but sometimes the moment just wasn’t big enough for him.
You can’t wait for the future to happen. Before you know it the future is the past. Now is the time, now is the time. Be here while it lasts.
Lacking anything to say he died and left only a shadow.
Laugh if you must and even dance too, but do not blame me, for I am only the court jester, summoned to send up fools.
There were many things for which night came to pass, fed by the wine of forgetting.
And so I sent a thought aloft as though it were spring so that the sun might make it blossom but soon, sooner that I imagined night fell and with it the thought fell to the ground like a sparrow with clipped wings.
Halftime at the Super Bowl sucks again. Madonna is not football.
It was an unsuccessful foray into absurdity because it all made sense.
The meaning escapes me but the significance has not been lost… no, wait, the significance escapes me but the meaning has been obfuscated… no, wait, I escaped the meaning but the signification has been dropped… no, wait, wait, wait! Don’t go! Come back! Come back!
I speak only for this dust for out of this dust only has my voice arisen.
It comes down to this: Do you have anything to say and what are you trying to say? Will the silence speak for itself or will you leave a voice and a vision lingering in the minds of all the witnesses who saw you passage across the mosaic of days?
Never a dull moment, if nothing is happening now, wait a minute. Something is inevitable.
There was an idea here but it fell down the hole.
I am a pilgrim. Just can’t recall what I was looking for.
Look into a mirror too long and all you will see is glass.
I kept trying to kid myself but the punchline would never come.
January 2012
Sometimes it can be so silent you can hear your thoughts.
One of these days it will all be clear but for now I’m enjoying the fog.
Luck is what happens to other people.
I looked to the rain for answers but each drop was only the entrance to an ocean whose depths would be plumbed by currents I could not follow with grace or agility. So the questions hung in the air, wet sparrows searching for a sheltered branch.
”… and so let me get this straight: It was all just a gas pain and nothing more. But what about the excess helium and the football shaped growth on the end of his neck? And the voices… what about the voices? There they go again. Julius H. Cripes! At least babble in a language I understand.”
The sun slid down the back of the sky and into my skull, and so the story continued.
59. Prime number. The arrow of time points forward, the mind keeps growing. There is always something new to learn, new to do. Let’s go.
Ain’t enough to be who you are. Seems you have to sell who you are. I ain’t sellin’ nothin’.
If I had expectations, would it make a difference? Ain’t carrying that baggage. What comes will come. Expectations have killed many a good man. Ain’t playing that game. It may not be enough to some that I awake and I breathe and than what I know I know is more than the sum of nothing. But it will suffice until the sun comes out and all is seen for what it is.
If only, if only, [fill in your own story}, then send me, please send me to some place I’ve never dreamed of before.
Memes and genes outlive their carriers. That is the nature of this ongoing existence.
No one owns an idea. Ideas assume lives of their own.
If I could kill the world I would. But I cannot. The world cannot be killed. Only the eyes that see it. And the world will go on, blindness not discounted.
If I could kill the wind I would. But I cannot. The wind will not be killed. It cannot be held long enough, as with water except when it becomes ice. And then it becomes the murderer and I will flee across vast white expanses, searching for a...
Magic is a matter of will, mental acuity and manual dexterity.
In the absence of deities, make you own miracles.
Do not rely on gods and spirits to save you from drowning if you do not learn to swim in the river of life.
A bleak view of reality should motivate you to control what you can control and instill meaning nto what you can instill meaning.
Don’t let them kid you. You are replaceable. With billions of individuals out there fighting for your job, your food, your breath, your life, who but a few are going to miss you?
Luck, or should I say random fortuitous circumstance, is a peculiar beast to say the least.
There always seems to be time until there isn’t and then the obvious takes its cue and the seemingly inevitable dons its face.
There are moments to fill but we must make the reasons to fill them.
True beauty lies not only in the honesty of its answer but too the elegance of its expression.