She Said He Said

She said, “Things that make me smile…

Riding bareback wearing next to nothing just before sunset;

Reaching the highest peak to witness all the beauty three-hundred-sixty degrees above and below;

Blasting through white powder yelling, ‘ Last one down is a rotten egg!’

Hooking the shy one that would not bite all the ones that tried before;

The security of a heavy blanket that warms my toes but not my nose;

Singing like a rock star to my favorite songs;

Zooming in and out of clouds of bug dust, accelerating, to win – I must!

Rub-a-dub-dub, bubbles in my tub;

Watching the evening sun burn through the clouds as it melts into the horizon;

Soaking my naked body in Mother Nature’s sulfuric baths;

Peddling on a path under trees alongside a winding river;

Traversing unknown paths that lead to places I’ve never been;

Feeling the intense earth-rattling vibrations of a thunder strike;

Sipping iced tea on a front porch while the smell of forward rain takes me back;

Oil soaked knees and greasy fingers gained from working on a potential lean, mean, fine-tuned machine!

Swift in the white waters splashing, laughing, and cheerful hollers.”

And He said, “Things that make me happy… Your smiles.”


Spear the Sphere and Burst the Bubble

Collectively we have created this scenario, our world; a sphere that most cannot see beyond. We find our comforts here and make the best with what we have. We love what we can grasp. But, beyond that there exists a love so beautiful and magnificently grand. Our cognizance was not created to fully fathom its depths, for if it were – happiness here would be impossible.


You can’t burn the ashes of the charred. You can’t suck the juice from an unripe fruit. You can’t shave the hair off a skinned hide and you can’t peddle pedals with nothing to ride. You can’t track the ticks without a watch nor can you walk a slinky whose spring has sprung. Try rolling a ball that’s been rolled flat or adding a tit and subtracting a tat. Numb a skull that has no brain or silence a mute without a say. Twist a tongue that’s already tied or chip a truth with a lie. You can’t see colors in the dark but you can right the fright when you slash the f out of it. You can’t wiggle your tail feathers when your butt has been plucked or stand on solid ground when your world’s upside down. You can’t play with dough if it’s dried up and you cannot spend your stash and smoke it too. Nor can you eat Krazy glue like its Elmer’s and you most certainly cannot stick what is already stuck. Luck is only lucky with a Y and yet no one knows why. Chans plange and plans change but fate can never be arranged. Time tells when talking doesn’t and words deny what the eye spies. Can’t be known what isn’t learned and can’t be told what isn’t shared. You can tickle the ticklish but you can’t pickle the relish. You can thread the needle and needle the thread but you can’t take the t out of time, or the i, or the me either. You can derange and rearrange the strange like intoxicating the sober but you can’t take the drink out of drunk. You can even take the stink out of a skunk but, you cannot take the stank out of stunk or float a boat that has already sunk. You can’t be level if you’re listing or heeling if you’re not listening. Can’t wipe your feet on a mat that doesn’t welcome that and can’t make sense of that when it’s really this, or this when it’s really that. You cannot finish without an end any more than you can begin without a start or split hares when you only have one bunny, silly rabbit.

An Epidermis Explication

The epidermis is our largest, living organ. Its main purpose is to protect our innards. There are those that are thin skinned who are often razzed for bleeding easily whenever poked. And there are those whose skin is so thick they never bleed externally and sometimes appear to others as beings with super human powers or inhumane monsters. The delicate capillaries of the thin-skinned ones are so close to the surface their warm, flowing essence is easy to see. We sometimes wonder if the hardened ones even have blood circulating within them. Their inner lava streams rarely if ever surface. Like an old erupted volcano that once spewed its illuminating radiant core everywhere, it is now slumbering under a hard crusted surface. From the outside there is quiet and peace, seemingly beautiful; but underneath there is turbulence and turmoil raging and waiting to be released. Only an extreme amount of pressure produces freedom again.

Our protective shield grows as we mature, and morphs as we encounter myriad sensations of feeling pain. There are painful blows in the ring of life. Some hits only bruise us and some flat knock us out. Other times we are simply scathed, pinched, pricked, or poked. In worse cases we are slashed, speared, stabbed, or shot. The little pains don’t matter much it seems as they quickly heal. The deeper wounds, if left unattended, will eventually drain the life force right out of us and although we may appear living we are actually already dead. But, like the sleeping mountain, we can live again, even if it’s just vicariously through the lives we support around us.

A tricky puncture is the silent sliver, one that gradually works its way under your skin. Maybe at first you don’t feel it and when you do notice it, it is too far in and too much trouble to remove. It’s barely noticeable, unless you rub it the wrong way. So you go on, and on… Until one day you forget it’s even there. Sometimes you have a memory of it and you think maybe it came out on its own? Maybe your body absorbed it and now nothing is left? No matter. Until the one who splintered you in the first place attempts to jab you again, then pain comes at once, sharply much more poignant now than then. You still can’t put your finger on it but you know the source of the pain is in there, under your skin, under your armor; it’s in you. It’s prickly and it’s hot. You know the only option is to evoke your “Rambo” warrior spirit and dig out the abscessed shard yourself, whether you like it or not. You simply cannot heal until the penetrating poisoned dart is removed, for good. Dig, dug, fought and found, freed and unbound.

Of course pain is not the only sensation experienced. We love to feel love. From the soft, caring touches of a nurturer to the warm, melted breath of a lover. Brushing, not against our grain but, laid lightly upon our skin to gently absorbing deep into our core. With this our essence within flourishes. Our blood swiftly swims to the surface like hungry guppies wanting more. Here in this place we are secure. We are open. And here we are most vulnerable.

Through pain and love we struggle to find a perfect fitting to live in and under. If we forge it too strong we limit its permeability and risk rejecting love. But if we wear it too thin we unknowingly invite predators eager to bite. An epidermis soft enough to bend, thin enough to feel warmth, calloused enough to fend off cold, but not numbed by scars is not just a mere armor or a sheath; it is what houses us. It is more than a shield that protects us from outside elements. It is more than a living organ; it is the edge of us. The part of our being that allows us to live from the inside out. We can exhale exuding life with each breath or we can hold our breath excluding light, stay in our shell, suffocate and die.


The Fuliginous Fog

Choices, challenges, and consequences creating pathways on our journeys to destinations that deliver us to our destinies.

Justifying judiciary jurisdictions victorious in constructing conflicting contradictions, predictions of addictions adding addicts to it instead of subtracting from it. “When” we predicate “where” we propagate to fornicate the “who” we generate that which is “what” we procreate and the “why” lies under the “how” undiscovered until we die.

We wait to eradicate because we enjoy the hate. Underneath our hair-raising sheaths we are all sheep, asleep seemingly unaware of our double-dog dare convictions responsible for our afflictions that coincide with our very own suicide. Fumigated with pollution revolted without solution bolted into revolutions spinning tops that never cease to spin any kind of thread but dread.

Quicken the spindle and weave faster as we swindle and dwindle our Divine’s design. Had we not been pricked we wouldn’t be sick and left slumbering our beauty away. A memory’s kiss amidst the poison mist unveils the love that can and will prevail forging through the fogs of forgery with the internal light of our eternal essence.

Depression by Oppression

Cultural cures lure us to swallow and sedatingly suppress our tears we need – to shed – light on the basis of our fears that serve to alarm us. But instead we disarm us. For ward progress, essential to eternal regress, to remove all protest.

Depression by Oppression

Numbified and dumbified we have been successfully zombified without resistance, to a mere existence. With the apocalypse right behind us there remains no one sane left to find us.