Great White

It’s coming. They tell you it’s coming. You know it’s coming. It will come. You don’t know when exactly. It doesn’t matter. When it comes you’ll know. That’s soon enough. Well prepared are you? Everything in place? Ready to face it when it comes? No need to worry. You’ll find out soon enough. See you out there. See you then. It’s coming. ƒ

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The Newday

I saw a Newday outside my window this very morning, striding up my street in plain sight, not so very plain. Brilliant in resplendent colors, glowing gold and burnished red, aflame with luster, sparkling with a panoply of stars retiring for the night, a Newday breathing fire ready for mortal combat against fear, fatigue or apathy. I saw a Newday coming down my street, meteoric in its swiftness. It will not stay. I must capture it, befriend it quickly, throw my reins over its massive head and leap into the saddle for the ride. What fun we’ll have, charging through the neighborhood and out into the world. I saw a Newday looking for companionship today, searching for a kindred. I volunteered. Up, up and away! ƒ

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The Blind Poet

All poets are blind or should be, blind to the world they see, yet given sight to see what is invisible.   All poets should stumble through other people’s lives, all the obstacles of a sighted world or what passes for sight.   All poets should write about what they cannot prove because no one else can see what they see and no one believes what they are told.   All poets should be blind to momentary monetary gain and accolade and just know what they know is real and what they are told is folly, because of course, no one else can see it.   All poets should be blind and take their stick and use it like a rapier in defense of dignity, honor, glory and truth and only tap the ground for emphasis, not helplessness.   All poets should be blind and cross the street to the […]

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Rachmaninoff

Do you remember? Sure you do. You remember the night, the weather, the stars. I remember everything. So do you. You remember the music, the masterpiece upon the air and my reply to your alluring look. You remember what you wanted. I do too. Yet what I did not know, what you knew and your hellish friend knew with you is what you would do to the love I composed out of innocence and devotion or try to do. You knew it must be sacrificed to gods I did not worship. I worshiped you. Poor me. Political you. Now I have the music. I play it for myself and those who care to listen, wondering how such strains of magic are woven from thin air. I do not tell I learned it from a spider who attempted murder accompanied by music in a silken lair. ♥

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Kindling

Long time now since my old friends and I got together. Axe in one hand, maul in the other, oak block on end, the thwack, clang and again, again until the wood gives up and lays open ready to light. As in life so in this. Strike and don’t miss. ♠

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Migraine

My grandfather got them so they say, so bad he sat in his chair motionless, sweat dripping from his face, his hands gripping the arms of the chair, his feet planted on the floor, the veins of his neck keeping time with the pain until it passed, until the horrible presence went away, knowing it would come again, knowing he could take it. I don’t suffer from those. I get heartaches. ♥

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Scapegoat

“It’s like this,” he said. He said it real slow. Then he said, “Pass me that bottle.” The bottle held rye, a nice drink. Smooth and savory from single grain. He drank, but not too much, just a sip clean and neat. Then he put the glass down. The glass he’d poured into, his favorite glass, the gift of a friend no longer his friend. He let the liquor sweeten his disposition and continued. “I’m a scapegoat,” he said. “They blame me.” “Who blames you?” “They all blame me. They drove me off, told me don’t come back and I never did, because I’m a good boy. Doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad if they make you a scapegoat. That’s what they want you to be. That’s what they need you to be. That’s what they make you.” He took another sip. “Can’t change it.” Then he said, “Thank […]

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The Second Fire

Prometheus brought fire to the earth we are told and lo, the Gods punished him, because Gods are wealthy and jealous of power. There’s a second fire we can bestow, if only we dare. The fire of love. Gods are wealthy and jealous of power. They seek to punish. We must beware. Reckless and heedless of consequence, we must yet love and thereby warm and illuminate the earth. Let them do what they will, we carry as a gift fire to those enslaved by darkness, chained and cold. Gods are wealthy and jealous of love. Rob them and give to the poor. ƒ

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Hooks for Hands

He lost them by accident. One false move, one unguarded moment and he burned. They cut off what was left and right and fitted him with steel actuated by cables, attached to his shoulders by leather straps.   I found him smiling, greeting children and ringing the bell in a parade, having his picture taken and never once did I see anything but a smile upon his face.   Never once have I seen such courage, no never once but many times, as many times as there are hooks and scars and amputations where life once took itself for granted.   Now life wins once again, no not once, but many times. ♦

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Musicianship

Ever seen those guys playing their music? Rock and roll, rhythm and blues, classical or jazz.   It doesn’t matter what. They jive. They play their music. They listen to each other, fall in and out, nod and smile.   Ever seen those guys playing their politics? Can’t hit a single note. Got no rhythm. Can’t find the key. ♠

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