on making it this far

A circular saw is your tool, rip cuts your specialty.   Along the grain but deeper than is reparable. 

Time and time again, ravaging beyond recognition.  Steel and permanence.  A reflex, not an instinct.

Fingerprint of the hand that made you, five senses deep, sixth sense wide.

On a good day though, from the side, I see a water wheel, not a blade.  Power quietly generated.

Rippling between your fingers, remembering the webs you no longer have.  Resistance, however slight, is pleasurable.  It highlights what has been surrendered. 

pace yourself

Quiet lines, whispering ivy, silent tendrils black and silky.

I thought I knew you.

I've paced my life upon you.  An impartial metronome, pulsing, beating, defining, reminding.

Beliefs carved into ancient marble, patterns immortalized into timeless sound, stories told with forever paint on the walls of caves unexposed to the elements.

In my darkest moments, you are everything.  And in my purest, you are nothing.


Black earth, rich with minerals and gems worn to sparkling dust by time.

on the nature of art

For years you've searched for it.  Overturned stones, peeled back fading wallpaper.  You found it once, or so you thought, scratches on vinyl when vinyl was still the only thing.  A song that skipped your favorite part.

Where the sun usually shines the brightest and longest, this was not where you expected it to be.  Swirls of soot-filled tar smeared artfully, tendrils extending to the very ends of you.  Post modern enough to deserve its own show.  You asked for a name, why wouldn't you?  Once someone is already in, you may as well be civilized.

The whispered reply, "I am your oldest friend."

Anything but that.  And yet.  It's all coming back, remember whens and moments as pictures.  Someone else was there.

It is a time for rituals, words that carry more than their sounds could possibly create and reverence that only silence can convey. Once complete, nothing remains.  Nothing that you can see unless you can see a promise in a seed.