Our plight is craving perfection
in an imperfect world:
imperfectly perceived,
imperfectly performed,
imperfectly programmed.
To have a mind that can imagine perfection,
but never attain it
creates a special hell vehicle.
so much power
in a lazy rolling wave
as it tips into a tube.
a column of
weighty water
piledrives:
pressing one down &
holding one in a
back-shaped divot
on the sandy bottom,
a forced pour
onto face and chest,
flowing & rolling
over both sides with
such easy skill
as to negate a
frantic, thrashing
attempt to roll free.
frozen silence.
but for the rustle of breeze
against dry grass.
snow will come,
and a crust of snow
will settle in crystalline
interlock with the brown stalks.
the snow will absorb sound,
muffling reality,
until nothing remains but
frozen silence.
a solid, black silhouette sinks submerge! submerge! it struggles to plunge & not be kicked back up -- to not bob like a wine cork in the dark sea but it seems to have no mass to sink but the right mass to fly
Breaching the surface,
one's neck craning, stretching,
one's lips in a wide "O,"
one gasps,
sucking air with a monster moan,
or maybe it's dying-man death-rattle.
The gasped breath
is insufficient,
and the body shoves
it back out,
craving more &
impulsively air packing.
As one bobs in the water,
one times another gasp
to the rebounding breach.
This one is more satisfying,
more calming:
the perfect breath --
for all intents & purposes.
There may be a time
when each breath is as precious
as this one.
The Nobodaddy rolls
like a sunglassed Santa Claus.
He watches things crash
with bemused satisfaction --
like a buzzed NASCAR fan.
And people cry out to him,
and he gives a spiritless wave
of vague acknowledgement --
like a celebrity tired of celebrity.
But the victims all die,
and Nobodaddy calls it a day,
a day of seeing life & death play out -
not in any grand design -
but puttering about as the living
bow to life,
and the dead play out a demise.
When I was a child,
for a time,
the bridge was out.
They were replacing the rusty
iron trestle bridge
with a thick-slab concrete
monstrosity.
I could go down to the river,
and I could see the
scarred and marred
construction site,
& the big yellow machines
that sat dormant on the weekends.
But one couldn't cross the river --
not unless one was willing to get wet,
and was a better swimmer than I
(and it was autumn & the water cold.)
It was a strong current that swept
along between two steep banks.
It was not a great distance,
nor were they violent waters.
But that brown water moved with
such smooth swiftness.
I dream about the time the bridge was out,
now & again,
and wonder what it was
about those weeks
that still has meaning to my mind.
A construction worker once told me -
for a building to last -
depends not so much on
its materials,
nor even on its foundations,
but rather on the building being
in balanced strain throughout.
A building stays up when its
parts press into each other firmly,
or pull at each other strongly,
but never too out of balance.
This web of unseen forces
allows the building stand solid
against any huffing, or puffing,
the world might throw its way.
A democratic society works the same.
It must have an establishment.
It must have a counterculture.
And these two elements must
constantly pull at each other
or mash into each other:
tension & compression,
compression & tension,
tug-of-war & sumo.
If one side is unopposed, or too weak,
the state will crumble into some kind of
authoritarianism by another name.
Destroy your enemies at your own peril.
You're my Analects,
my Gita,
my Dao De Jing,
my sutras,
my Meditations,
and my Republic
all rolled into one.
You are the scripture by which I live.
You present a path to that rare place:
extreme confidence
which tears no one down,
but, rather, lifts all.
You achieve this by crushing
the ordinary.
Nothing is common.
Everything is a miracle.
(Even those leaves of grass
you repeatedly reference.)
No one is so rough
or promiscuous
or simple
as to be lowly.
Your author's unbridled enthusiasm
glowed with the insane confidence
of an adolescent boy,
but his awesomeness was never gained
by subtracting from others.
Rather by seeing the bright, beautiful spark
in each body,
mind,
pair of hands,
& burdened shoulder.
You are America,
the America we want to be.
The America that labors,
but which takes time to see
its natural wonders.
The America that heard what Jesus said,
and became less excelled at stone-throwing,
and more at cheek-turning.
The America that could see beyond dogma
and hard-edged tribalism,
and could learn from all the
grand & glorious people
who reached its shores --
So that we could be the best version of ourselves
through the strengths of all of us,
and not be stymied by missing
the great beauty & knowledge
among us.
You pair away the extraneous burdens
which tax the mind,
and show us what the world looks like
unfiltered.
You teach one to see a beauty
that is so well hidden
that its own possessor doesn't
recognize it.
You are the song of a life well lived.
Gentle waves lap ashore, circling into each other, one riding over the other. The lower sweep becomes another shore for the higher. Which side wins out changes from one wave to the next.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 