Oddservations

There are few commonalities Between man, woman, child, but sunset brings with it our forced surrender to the moon. Mankind's boundless control, unrelenting and constant, rages come daybreak but loses power in the dark. Is there any greater proof of this nightly disorder than the presence of dreams? In a world ruled by science few mysteries remain how much more so an enigma of the mind. Sleep is a chasm of loss, cutting our mortality in half. With such a finite number of waking hours, the pressure to actualize is tiring. I often daydream about travel. If I could be anywhere in the world, I would want to be anywhere in the world. Yet, here I sit, (my existential clock ticking timely) waiting for the night to live a life too fantastic for the day.

To the bat man,   I wish I could blame you for this.   Sure, you were the catalyst. It was your body that metabolized the chicken that ate the bat that ate the corn that harvested the virus (or some other serpentine account of what should have been a meaningless coincidence). But implicating you for infecting thousands  is like blaming the planes for destroying the Twin Towers. While the catastrophic intention   was not found in the wet market, (as it was in Iraq),   the effect produced is identical.   Except, Bat Man,   In our case there is no embrace,   no hand holding or unification,   this time our country will not come together in an attempt to fight back against the invasion.   This virus has not only spread it’s microbes,   It has spread us   apart. You, in your mask,   Us, in ours. Ensuring that no contact,   however diminutive, takes place between your victims. Your body became a host  for a microscopic ger

If this cul-de-sac could talk It would tells tales of break downs tantrums & panic attacks. It would tell stories of blood shot eyes and wordless journaling.   It is where I first put pen to paper outside of my middle school English class. It is anything but natural. There are trees, yes,   but even the soil feels man made, intentional.   My neighborhood could be cut out   of a magazine, spider webs and all.   So, when the uncertain world around me crumbles to mulch at my feet. I venture out,   notebook in hand, into the   Known.  

In the style of Alice Notley.  What are you in love with? What. Not who. Who implies a face, a name, a some body. What. What turned that lump of flesh into a beating heart? It can't be a mantra of "because I told you so's" & norms & have to's. It must be an endless list of want to's & need to's & the slightest of inflections & feelings beyond what can be encompassed in a he/she/it/they/them Or even us. That is the meaning of the "what". It surpasses the who's & how's. It is the what. It is the dichotomy of never understanding why, but knowing that it's right all the same.

The reason I grow aged to grow old I hear the ticking clock that turns me gray Through times that shape my mind and make it bold This same pace brings my body to decay. Each generation calls another forth The pressure of a lasting legacy Too soon they will forget their parents worth (Sans a favor, a check, a recipe).   Carpets still as white as when we bought them The china lies unbroken in its chest Screams that once were shrill are now like diamonds Now no more to crave than hours of rest. An empty nest is not always “alone”- A chance to learn to fly upon your own.