Inches
i keep seeing inches in time
little spaces
they linger
or jump
to connect larger space
making conversations
they fuse and bind through aggregate
inch of time after inch of time
then life is an allotment of inches
circumstances
formed by inches of temporal spans
a sigh
a snort
these are obvious culprits
red hand the inch is had who snorts
at a funeral
or sighs
at a wedding
but is it not more exciting
and even romantic
to exalt in the more muted inch of moments
a lingering hand
a slow withdrawal from embrace
how we pursue these tiny pieces
these fractions
the two by ones in lego we search for
at the bottom of the bag
blistering, chaffing, scratching our hands
for the glory of the smallest square which
makes a difference
not in use
but in wholeness
and we love wholeness
it is the pageantry of relative perfection
to have all the inches we can imagine
like the sequins comprising the the vestment of our sum of days
after all, we die in an inch of time
made whole regardless
Nocturnal Reflection
Floors above. I see me in this nocturnal reflection. The cities bright night lights twinkle beyond the glass. So benign in the day, but in the evening there I am clear as the image in a mirror. I think of myself over the years, swiveling on an Aeron chair past the twilight hour, when the window comes alive. Watching myself age in that reflection, it is not enough.
paper airplanes
he could build
a paper airplane
which when the wind was right
could settle on the air
like a confident gambler
rumor had it he got one to go fifty yards
the dogs would tire waiting for it to land.
Fray
a frayed edge of a toothbrush
or a rug
tell me i’m truly alive
in case i doubted which
i do
not want to be alone
i don’t
think so anyway
it wears on me
time
like my teeth
on brushes
or my feet
on rugs
i am being erased by
these moments
and i bristle, but this encourages
my erasure
the present cleansed of me
by time rubbing against me
and time recalled to shine again
as always
while i fray.
(without metaphor)
after plot
i reflect on ideas
i had
about us
you and i
we were going to do
something
we didn’t
i don’t
know what i thought
i don’t
think what i knew
but i believe
me
even if i lack the courage
to defend
us
i’ll understand later i assume
like finding the lost keys to a car
long sold
there is nothing to do
and besides
(without metaphor)
only the sun announces
its intentions
and does exactly that which it promises
i don’t.
Cornerstoned
cornerstoned as i round
a bend
in my years
marked by calendars and
lines
on the edges of my eyes
i arrive at a place in space
and time unfamiliar
i hear
the easy chatter of my
youth
back around the bend
but i can no longer
see it
not turned away
but turned around
a corner
in my years
less impressive but stronger
founded perhaps
not floating
cornerstoned
not cornered.
a dry river
a dry river trickles across the landscape
30,000 feet below me
a tan line
worn into a brown valley
mere memories in the land
of a dry river that ran
Surrender
There are two types of surrendering: surrender with and surrender without. It is so hard to know which is the better path. Without echoes courage, with whispers compassion. Both demand acceptance, which is the hardest part. But sometimes the struggle simply needs to end.
Stutter
This isn’t automatic. Like talking. The words aren’t effortless. Is it practice? The permanence derails me, perhaps. The notion that these words are launched irretrievably into “space”. Once fired they wander like wind forever. It’s daunting, because I care. I care about what is permanent in the world. The indelible is the only thing that matters in the end.
Shhhh.
Sometimes things get lost in words. There is a presumption that communication is inherently clarifying, we talk to understand. But sometimes the better route is to stay quiet. I’m terrible at this, but I know it’s true.
undo
Today I tossed my iPhone on the couch and a message came up that said, “nothing to undo”. Untrue, iPhone, untrue.
Happy Days?
Today I came home early and watched TV. Every afternoon in Sydney they show episodes of Mork and Mindy, Happy Days, and the Brady Bunch one after another. Today I watched all three.
Mork released the full range of his feelings, learning how to manage the complicated landscape of human emotions. In Happy Days, the Fonz realized from his friends that he was fighting too much and learned to control his anger. In the Brady Bunch the youngest son won a bet against the oldest, but learned that managing winning is as important as not losing.
I learned that TV really was different before. In all the episodes the morality was unforced and kind. It was human, not divine, in its source; humorous and not didactic in its delivery; genuine and not artificial in its sentiment.
We’ve lost this these days. On our televisions our kindness is violent and our violence is extreme. To watch TV in the modern world is to watch people die. Mostly anyway.
