My expectations outreach my grasp, and I keep reaching. But none of this is real.
It's a free fall, it's nothing at all, it's an untethered space walk, it's blah blah blah blah blah.
It's one body missing another on its way to nowhere, it's sleeping and waking and sleeping and doing and not doing, being and not being, having and not having.
Where is that God of whom they speak when I need the answer?
Right here, right in front of me, with no answer.
Right here, in the triple venti latte.
Right here, in the burning heart.
Right here, in the eyes of a dog.
Right here, in the dictionary.
Right here, in the room that is a womb that is where I begin and end each day.
Wake up and try again.
Reach, just in case it is real.
Don't be surprised if it is not.
Writing is making a connection.
Or writing is writing.
Building fences is a metaphor.
Or building fences is building fences.
Love is the bottom line everything.
Or love is no fucking thing at all.
Shhhhhhhh.
Quiet. Breathe. Listen.
See? You don't know anything.
It changes everyday.
3 comments:
Or as H.L. Mencken said, "We are here and it is now. The rest of human knowledge is just moonshine."
Moonshine is hard on the liver.
good writer. good blog. i read a lot of them every day, mostly the political sort.
this one's like a refreshing sherbet between courses.
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