how much death do we walk on?
how much death is compacted 
beneath our feet?
Eons of it.
it is our daily sustenance. 

"It’s not the thing that you do dear, it’s thing that you leave undone, that will bring a bit of heartache, at the setting of the sun."

— Someone else’s grandmother.

Let’s speak directly

You are waves around my ankles—
like Botticelli birthed Venus, I am delivered to you
time and again.
Rhythmic as breath.

The water grasps while retreating,
reaching only as it withdraws..
The gentle suck and swell of tides.

How can you love the sun?
How can you love the sun and not
the hot, red, heat of a lesser body?

I just walked over my own cyber grave.

shivers

How many times
did we stand between the door
and midnight,
exhaling pale ringlets
into the street light—

Two summer may flies
floated down from the black—
we barely noticed them.

fragmenting
fragmen
            ting

frag
   menting

entropy

across the world…
lights flicker out.

"Not many things in life are as simple and earnestly made as a good kitchen table."

this is the sound—
  the marching feet stepping out the time,
 the decades in which
  our nation fell in on itself,
 explosively folded into decline—
of the drumbeat.

Nothing ruins a game like an existential crisis.  Thanks Philosophy majors for sharing!

"Discovery consists in seeing what everybody has seen and thinking what nobody has thought."

— Albert von Szent-Gyorgyi (1898-1986) Hungarian Biochemist 1937 Nobel Prize for Physiology

Make it last
Wear it out
Make it do
Or do without.

Learn to plant your feet.
Spread ‘em out far and plant ‘em deep,
like a tree by the water, 
like a sycamore,
like an oak,
both thighs end’n in roots straight down
to the ground.
Plant your feet real good
and you can take
a knock’n blow
(body and pride alike)
and not be moved.
It only matters whose stand’n
last, anyhow.

Crush’n on a Little Finch Bird

Short story.  Enjoy.

Crush’n on a Little Finch Bird

"To do the useful thing, to say the courageous thing, to contemplate the beautiful thing: that is enough for one man’s life."

— T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American Poet