I wind the clocks. I need more time. Things run down. I wind the clocks. I set the hands to make it right. Time gets out of hand sometimes. I wind the clocks. I don’t know what the day will bring. The clocks don’t mind. They face the unknown stoically. Their hands empty to receive…
So I went to the hardware store today to buy a tiny little screw like the ones I needed to repair a set of window shade brackets. The brackets were originally fastened to the window frames with tiny little nails and the nails came loose over time, so I thought I’d fix them. I’m that…
They left me for dead. Wounded. Blood. Everywhere. My own. It scared them. They ran. Good. Let them. I lay. Crawled. Gripped the dirt and pulled up on rocks to crawl up to the next. Pain so great so much like God it became a friend. I talked to it. Spit my name. More blood…
A man must believe in more than death or dying. What might that one thing be? Love, of course, inevitably. The fountainhead from which all life flows or otherwise what flows is mere vanity or nothing into nothing and doomed to nothing more save its own reflection which repeatedly is nothing at all. Love gives…
Stare at Death. Go ahead. Face it. Look deep and watch the reflection and the sand. See how they flow together in a heap all by themselves ever downward, dissipating and irretrievable. Unless and this is all in all, you reach out and turn it over, the whole device and all its contents. As and…
I want to go home, but not in a box. I’ve seen my father ride in one and his father before him and the women who loved them, all carried like babies in a cradle to their final resting place. Not me. I want to go there. Know I will inevitably, but not so calm,…
I want to tell you a story. A man told it to me today. I want to tell it to you. He organizes baseball games for children with mental and physical disabilities. Himself a man with a limp and a deformed arm from birth, he knows what he’s doing. After a baseball game, after being…
Where do voices come from? They come from you and me. They come from us like foam upon the sea. Our deepest thoughts and passions, occasionally a truth, expressed through our voices. Living proof. Sing to me of gladness. Sing to me of mirth. Let me hear the still small voice of love. ƒ
So let me see if I got this right. You pick up a green walnut from the ground and you sit there on a branch and you tear into it with your sharp incisors. That’s a beautiful tail you’ve got there for balance by the way. Anyway, you sit there chewing and spitting and spitting…
There atop the thorny bush there is a rose. One rose in late summer. One rose against the odds, against the sky, against the elements, against gravity itself, a thing of beauty, a point of vivid life against the backdrop of normalcy, the green, the standard vegetation and so am I. Let it be for…
