So here’s yet another thing I’m trying to wrap my mind around, again. Thoughts thrown out to the Universe in some kind of prose.

06/13/16 Orlando; Another Again…

So here we are again.

It’s really a rickety, old shop,
Bet it’s every bit of
Thousands of years old,
With innumerable shelves,
More than can ever be
Completely counted.

The shelves are
Family, community, culture, government;
The shelves matter.

But on the shelves…

Every fraction of inch
Is filled with glass.
Perfectly crafted,
Each exquisite, unique,
Each an unduplicateable treasure.

The glasses are of course tf 06132016 fnd img glass float ball water
Living beings.

There are days I wish
These glasses were never made
And certainly not sitting
On these ridiculous wobbly shelves.
In this ancient, rickety shop.

Who built this anyway?!
Delicate, precious treasures
In such a precarious place.

Because, as it happens,
All this sits on
An ancient fault line.

Every now and then
Another earthquake comes.
The glasses get thrown
From the shelves,
Smashing against the old floor.

One year
In a beautiful blue morning,
Filled with ordinary peace,
Over 3,000 glasses fell,
Exploding against the ground.

Another time,
Twenty tiny, tiny glasses,
Just barely had fire and sand
Come together in form,
Were hurled against the ground,
Ruined shards scattered

Another time,
When gentle Parisian music played,
Suddenly 130 glasses fell.

A long time ago,
In a bitter, cold terrible Winter,
An earthquake circled
And 150 glasses exploded.

More glasses are made.
Earthquakes come and go.
Again and again.
And the next set of
Glasses are thrown
And smashed against the ground.

Sharp bits of glass
Carpet the ground,
Bare feet cannot
Tread around.
Must walk through
The dead.

Again and again,
The next earthquake comes.

One becomes fearful of peacefulness,
Yet desperately seeking it out.

Each time brings
The same dizzying sensations:

Nausea, fear, sorrow, rage.
Rage, nausea, fear, sorrow.
Sorrow, rage, nausea, fear.
Fear, sorrow, rage, nausea.

Tears, tears, tears.

And no real

Small innocent breezes
Come to feel
Like ominous precursors.

Precious flicker of silent, beautiful stars,
Become distorted,
Bring dread and recollections
Of roaring, snapping, shattering earthquakes.

And this too shall pass.

Days feel heavy,
Uncertainty clings in the air.
Though the body is exhausted,
Sleep only comes
With alcohol’s aide.
tf 06132016 fnd img glass on beach 2
It’s sickly ironic.
Sand and fire created glass.
Deep moving fire,
The very portion of creation,
Erupts violently,
Breaking all the glasses,
And the glass returns to
The bits of sand from
Whence it first came.

How do you heal the World
With just two insignificant hands,
While the World
Keeps falling apart?

I don’t know.

But gently,
Take the roar, scream, wail,
Transform to soft whisper,
Filled with twisting force,
Through all the suffocating emotions.

Forget about the next
Earthquake to come.
The rhythm of Life
Keeps going on.
Just keeps going on.

Again and again say,
Even when it doesn’t sound true,
Say it again anyway;

Don’t know how,
Don’t think about how,
Not right now,
Just hold to somehow
Everything’s gonna be alright.


Cap’n Toni Old Boi Fish Aynia NightFish Djhrck Fisher …

(C’mon Marley, take us home.
I don’t care what religion you are, man,
just preach that, just be that
peace, healing and love,
and I’ll sway with ya.
‘An it harm none, Blessed be.)


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