In the cold hours just before dawn I sat on the curb and watched lightning flash across the southeastern horizon. In the calm of midday, my love and I picked up lunch and got caught in a torrential downpour on our way home; we ate on my bed, a pillow between our backs and the wall, a song of rain and thunder beyond the open window. In the final light of day, when the sun once more shone through breaks in the clouds draped across the peaks of my valley’s western wall, my love and I spotted from atop a hill a ghost of the storm weeping over a forest, its black tears watering once withered roots, shivering in the wind.
like this on which
I wish I was a robot,
for steel fails
far slower than flesh
and extendable limbs
chained in dank corners.
were as great
up in mating displays,
the wind the song
they shared between them,
their scent their plumage,
flowers and fragrance.
We dripped into the night, eyes chained to unexplained, ghastly white lights weaving through the graveyard’s drought-dwarfed pines and palms, an electric calm erecting arm hairs, peeled eyelids positive the bobbing orbs stared back at us before nesting in the moonlit canopy.
No one’s free until we’re all free, but you won’t hear that on your TV, the PD’s already smashed the cameras and dispatched snipers, scopes scanning clouds of tear gas, rubber bullet ricochet and fear-fueled brigades enforcing “crowd control,” so sleep at ease until you disagree, then you’ll see what I mean.
Though the valley-hopper harbors doubts in the depths of his mind, it is when he closes his eyes that he sees best, heart beating as one with the Universe simultaneously at rest and in motion, a mere speck in a vast cosmic ocean.
Every idea seems brilliant until I write the first sentence, then it’s just shit. The block lies not between my muse and my mind but somewhere between my fingers and my backlit keys. I suppose I’ve got to suck some days just so I remember how to appreciate my victories.
Crusades exist only so long as there are zealots to fight them, thus we must find those among us who feel incomplete without an enemy to hate and clear the smoke from our mirror, for despising the faults of those we perceive as the other will never cure us of our own.
be broken only
to insert words
More than five thousand members of a religious minority in Iraq were rescued from genocide today by Kurdish troops with the help of US air strikes. The Yazidis, adherents of an ancient faith, were besieged in a mountain range by fighters from the Islamic State group, murderers with the audacity to call themselves Muslims while torturing and crucifying those they deem infidels, ignoring the fact that the Koran itself deems religious persecution worse than killing. May this mark the beginning of the end of IS’s multinational terror!
Last night I learned that to eat seven freshly fried gorditas in a row induces sedation far greater than the itis, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t worth every bite.
Hot, saline beads sting
The breeze, sunglasses, iced tea
I want gorditas
Some mornings I envy those whose circumstances allow them to sleep past dawn, but then I wonder how often their eyes behold the setting of the stars, the way planes look like lanterns bobbing in a sea of black ink, the eastern sky fringed with indigo, the calm before the rest of the city wakes, the cool freshness of a new day yet to be defined by blessings or mistakes, all of the street lights still on.