Things I’m Thankful For

1) Mirth.
2) Ice cream.
3) Captions that are funnier than the articles.
4) Hidden messages.
5) All music in the guilty pleasure category.
6) Endings (abrupt ones.)
7) Let’s forget I said any of this and eat pie.


Conscious Enigma

Strange as it may be to say, I don’t possess much of an ego–in the sense that I find it difficult to perceive the world from my own point of view. I see everything in many different ways and cannot say which meshes properly with my self. Perhaps

these ideas are riven
needing something to unify them
but de-flocked,
chased into diffusion by an anxious

soul. Deep within, a murky fold of my being may hold the truth and may one day consent to living it unambiguously. For now, bear with me. All my words and thoughts are misaligned but maintain an enthusiastic gravity. All puzzles nest their solutions.

Love as a Nightmare

In your dreamscape
Fear saturates your entire body
Though of what you cannot say.

You want to be encircled,
ensorcelled by warmth and depth.
However, every moment
is an ocean of deprivation . . .

      Time is ruination,
      entropic death,
      without flesh or blood.

–My heart, the lonely sanctuary,
behind this anxious fortification;
You move like you’re not
moving at all . . .

Even the most anxious sleep
ends, all the better

Memory Elision

I’ve contemplated death since the age of four. I remember the year of inception only because I spent the hours of my fearful occupation with mortality beneath a birch tree in the front yard of a house my family lived in but a year. We changed residences often back then. Nothing seemed permanent to me.

(Every relationship of mine has ended in abandonment. Perhaps they all do. In time–slow may be its passage–people allow you less of themselves, of touch, word and emotion. Deprivation unto detachment.

My father, on the other hand, just disappeared
one day, left no clue as to where he absconded.
I felt that loss unlike every other: I did not weep.
I’m certain he’s found happiness . . . )

(I know however that memory remains ever fallible. All the love, nurture, and affection; the pain, cruelty, and silence could be mere imagination, the creative ends of self-pity meshed into desire. So, when I reach that penultimate moment of my existence, will the accounting of all my travails then be truer? more real than experience itself
ever was?)

At that tender age I convinced myself that I’d one day invent a machine or a medicine that would extend my life forever. What now lacks clarity is the knowledge of whether I believed that it was me
            or the world
                        that would end up

Why So Much Gridlock?

Dr Ben Carson
These days, the approval rating of the U.S. Congressional body ranges from bad to worse to could-it-get-any-worse. Though individual members of Congress tend to be popular (at least among their constituents), the whole is far less admired than its parts. Why should this be? To make an obvious observation: for the lack of legislative accomplishments.

Yet despite the animus this gridlock generates, the problem persists. The key to this contradiction lies in the conservative expectations of the average voter. That is to say, not politically Conservative, but rather the tendency in human nature (and in nature as a whole) toward what could be called “progress by lurches” (i.e. great periods of little activity followed by small periods of intense activity.)

In fact, many of the oldest survival strategies follow this pattern. Predators aren’t constantly hunting. They rest most of the day and expend the greater part of their energy in a few bursts of violent activity. People tend to grow bigger and stronger in spurts rather than in a uniform manner. Emotions tend to flare and burn out with great speed.

We seem very much to expect deprivation, frustrating as it may be to our immediate want. And more, we are wary (even terrified) of constant change whether broad or slight. Even favorable advances in our lives require a stilling of anxiety at a certain pace and one not equal for each person affected. But when a critical mass of citizenry is ready for progress, the change comes. And though there is always a backlash afterward from those not yet ready for this evolution, progress does tend to hold over the long term.

To paraphrase the Bible, “For every thing, for every purpose there is a time.” The world’s clock is not always wound symmetrically, but in the end, I believe, justly. Perhaps that is just the optimist’s cant. Perhaps not. Either way, the rhetoric will still fly free and endlessly while the feet beneath their origin stubbornly root against all intents great and small.

Nothing is Real (Everything is Real)

Let’s agree to disagree
why we disagree,
trapped as we are in the regret
of indifference.

Do not grieve against
the discordant empathy
toward the neglected,
inarticulateness in the face of despair.

(A word.
One single entry in hope’s roster.
Deep-night starlight vocalized.
Smooth yet anxious air relenting.)

We cannot un-listen, un-know,
because we fear
silence, truth, the horror gasped
from our own self-image.

What do you see when you look
in the mirror? Not what
the rest of the world sees.
And not glass either.

Love is made of the strangest tangles.
But the heart only wants.