Just Messing Around

And she wondered when
She had stopped being
The hero of her own story,

And in realizing it,
A stab of loss so sharp
And swift

She was a moment
Catching her breath

How I Wonder What You Are

The Master's hand poised, pulsating, the most pregnant pause there will ever be,

Then, legs spread wide, white bell bottoms seething with energy, a windmill-arm motion to strum the six super strings and Bang!

The one becoming the infinitely many,  harmonics by the trillions taking their turn in the limelight, reverberating, fading,

Like galaxies, like stars, like lives or days, or like the A which she meant to be a G and will correct the next time around,

My daughter teasing twinkle twinkle little star from the old cracked Baldwin, singing to remember the tune, voice as of yet still clear and free as space itself

I am circling back on years missed,
Prudence dictates that I train for my marathon at night,
While kids sleep and employment relents
(Marathons are more-appropriate insanity,)


No time to write. Must ride ny bike. Dark. Night. Air. Youth. Cement. Grass.

Don't Ever be Afraid to be Embarrassed

To live is to be
An asshole to some extent,
Jesus ain't hiring

A kid once told me I should be a butler,
Guess I'm polite, subservient, relatively well-spoken
And I've been one of sorts for years,
Taking rich kids to the airport,
Walking them to the gate,
Carrying their luggage to keep their hands
Free to play with screens,
Texting their Hollywood royalty parents
When I have watched their plane take off,
And returning to the treatment center resort,

But today,

Today it's just me and my backpack
Breezing through security,
Popping on headphones,
Sipping coffee,
Ignoring anyone I please,
Until I rise with the new sun
And head closer to the ocean
And the woman waiting there

There may or may not be a phrase in the bible about a potter having the privilege of using some pots for noble purposes and others for base or common purposes. And it utterly ruined christianity for my young world-saving self. Cause we are equal, dammit. And there's a bit of a memory I have wherein a very young version of myself is writing out a sort of personal constitution and the one thing I knew for sure was that we all start out on a level playing field. And my mom chimed in with 'well, we don't really though do we?' Stuck with me for some reason. And I guess the conflict may have had something to do with confusing purpose with value. The pot may be an oil lamp or a bedpan.  And their respective value is a very separate thing from their intended purposes.

I feel, considering the aforementioned stuff and some other possible bible verse about man being in God's image and Bjork's comment about having a universe inside her (which I love although I cannot stand her music), that I might be an ear in this incarnation. Maybe. And maybe listening is my intended purpose, base or noble or otherwise.