Not all of us can do a flip
Not all of us can juggle
There need not be a fight, although
There always is a struggle
For if we'd see in different ways
We must get off the bus
That shows us only the same views
That reinforce our "us"
The high sun burns us all the same,
The winter cold all stings --
The common ground's outside our walls
And made of
Common
Things
the night exploded
into our long history
of all the feelings
we could have felt forever
had we the right ones to feel
when this, the moment
you are in
is all that there is
He walks across a parking lot
and towards a destination
made up of more than category
generalization
For much that we take on as truth
is made of thick pen lies --
my friends: we cannot see what's there
through other people's
eyes
now i see batman in the sky: the truth, a thing of mind, and eye, wraps all around this thing called time and leads me to a cooler clime, where once was stronger hope (and less) -- the brave one, full with fecklessness, who climbed the spiral bridge to find that peace is but a piece of mind -- but you, my friend, you know things small: that life, while crazy after all, is sweet and low and sharp and high, and why we're half-parts earth and sky
She traveled the low, and dreamed of the peaks.
Searching always her tribe, finding only their cliques,
She began to think, maybe, the problem was her:
For solutions just were not as advertised.
In the heat of the fall, in the cold of the spring,
She banked nothing and all on almost everything,
Was she neurodivergent, or just immature?
For the world seemed a little surprised
To find her as she was, or perhaps, as she wasn't:
Our do's and our will's do not fit one who doesn't --
And the moon still looks lonely to she-the-unsure,
The allure of just what wasn't
Prized
"How much time do we have left?"
The young boy asks, his parents shrug --
"Just enjoy the time while you can,"
His mom says,
While his dad looks on with a camera.
Sea touches sand like breath in lungs,
Clouds form their shapes, these whales, these ships --
Time flows and washes all away,
The mind will lurch and reach and slip.
We've traveled here, my love and I,
For she's now sick, and we don't know
How bad is it is, or how it ends:
The waters crash and ebb and flow
And I still don't know how much time
There is or can be, nor will I;
Awake I am, out on this shore,
While she is sleeping in, nearby,
Only so many days like this --
Only so many hours, smiles --
As I, like my father's camera try
To capture wind, and love,
And miles
Maybe I'm not a spectacle. There's nothing here that is amazing, or astounding: I am not the best or brightest, Neither the strongest, the fastest, nor best to look at. Maybe this is not a historically significant place -- Nor a place of current interest or intrigue -- Not just the right thing At just the right time. In a world and an age full of grabbing, Whether of attention, or hair, or opportunity, or money, I am a being of releasing: Of letting go, of setting free. None may stop to view such a lack of drama, Indeed, I scarcely pay it much mind, myself -- Maybe I'm neither all I think I am, Nor as little as I fear I've done. Maybe I'm not a spectacle, But I can honestly be what I genuinely am: Used, homely, full of purpose, faulty of execution, Closer to the dust than to the cradle. For I am neither angel nor demon: A digital bard from an age of paper coupons, A song no one listens to anymore Although there are forty-five hundred versions available. There is a genuine you of sinew and heartbeat, There is an actual me of skin and breath, But without the right dash of cavalcade, Do we qualify for real existence?
