Progress, My Dear

Must we always be in such a hurry?
Cars on the motor-way
flying past each other as they
shudder and shake
at their speed
The destination is unchanged
regardless of when we arrive
The land will not leave us

Messenger of God

No one would believe a messenger of God today.
There have been far too many false prophets
Who were, quite frankly, too damn crazy.

If God were to make a well-known public figure
Her new prophet there would be much skepticism
From the general public and rightly so.

If God were attempting to reach us then perhaps
Sending a prophet is no longer the best way
To send commandments and updates to the most

Recent testament. The Bible could stand to use
An update given the state of the modern world.
The Bible has no firm stance on people who fail

To use their turn signals while changing lanes.
The Bible could, at the very least, have some
updated parables. Perhaps God has given up

On the concept of prophets. Perhaps She is
Reaching us through new means that we have
Yet to acknowledge as such. I can touch you

From a distance when you pull out your phone
And stare at the lit screen. How easy would it be
For God to merely send us a reminder text about

Her infinite and never ending love.

Consent

Did your day pass without notice?
Did work bury your mind
under a rainfall of urgent matters
and routine procedure?
As you sat in your car
and readied yourself
for the drive home
did you roll down the windows
so you could listen to the hum
of idling engines?
Are you staring at another
screen right now
or cradling pulped trees
in your hands?
I wonder about you.
Are you ok?
Is this fine?
Can you remember
when all of us
agreed to this?

Quote Me On This

Modern conveniences lead to many annoyances.

befriending strangers

without ever meeting

why ruin the illusion

of intimacy

Wasting Breath

There is nothing to say

and we

are saying it

as loudly 

as possible

at all times.

Must we grow

callous 

to horror?

Socrates In The Modern World

I told her that I am not so wise.

She said “How can you say that?”

“Very easily,” I said, “with words.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

This all started because we had been

talking about Socrates. He famously

said that all he knows is that he knows

nothing. We can be reasonably sure

that even if Socrates didn’t phrase it

like that he did say something to that

effect. What hope do us mortals have if

such a vaunted mind felt so confident

about his own lack of knowledge?

If Socrates were alive today I wonder

if he would still feel the same. If he were

alive today there are many other things

which he would be ignorant about, such

as the last two-thousand or so years of

history. What would he think of the

monotheism of Christianity and Islam?

Would he convert to either faith?

Or would he find comfort in Buddhism?

I’m sure he would find Scientology to be

a hard sell. I do. He could easily become

a media sensation and have plenty of quick

one line sound bites ready to be easily

digested by any of the news shows. They

would need to find someone to translate

his colloquial Latin. I don’t think most news

outlets would be ready, but it would give

Latin students new job opportunities aside

from the usual high school teaching gigs

to uninterested students who are more worried

about the breakout probabilities of their skin.

I am still not sure why my friend thinks me

so wise. I am glad to be thought of in such

a way but those thoughts don’t seem to take

into account my shortcomings. I wonder what

was Socrates least favorite thing about himself.

Perhaps he never learned to properly tie his toga.

“I am not wise,” I told her, “I am merely a man.

Because of this my existence will always lack.

This is not the worst fate that could befall me

or any of us, it’s just the state of how we exist.

We live in tiny bubbles floating through air

that could burst at any moment. The miracle

is the continued state of the bubble. It is no

less beautiful because of it’s short life, in fact,

it is more beautiful,” I said.

We sat in the silence of the city, the sounds

of wind muddled with the mass of purring

engines and voices blurring into one sound.

WIthout Price

Money, what good are you

to me 

when 

                   the only thing

     I want


is

     what you cannot buy?

Wot's the deal?

What happened to forever?

What happened to 'til death do us part'?


My plastic ears cannot hear.

My bifocal eyes cannot focus.


Attention is hard to give or get.

Focus? On what? Why?


I hope I'm not missing out.

What happened on the telly?


The plug is pulled from the outlet.

The screen is black.


Blank. Like what?

Black. Like what?s

Palette Run Together

It was a mistake
that kept happening
over and over.

No use regurgitating
myth as metaphor
for explanation.

Are we more safe
now seeing through
all windows?

How calm horses
are with blinders
to guide them.

How much sight
is too much?
How much sight

is too little? We
forgot the comma
in the sentence.

Ceaseless blur-
allourthoughts
bleedingtogether

Dangling Carrots

We are pleased with ourselves.
Couched in luxury unthinkable
by generations barely decayed.

Problems persist, happiness
illusory at worst, fleeting at best.
It's definition recently revised.

Perfect planes of plastic, baubles
to be held, admired, possessed,
litter thought and aspiration.

Convenience is a given, sense
gathers dust in gray corridors,
falls asleep on the watch.

Glowing light as an anesthetic,
soothing, calming, the hand
of the unseen, falling lids,

the mind at rest.

Vacation

We never went on vacation like most other families did when I was growing up.
I never thought about it much as a child. We never took long family trips in the
summer to Yosemite, Big Bear, or any places like that. We rarely ever left the 
suburban sprawl that we called home. Dad worked and worked, he worked two
jobs to get us by. A vacation for him meant having a full weekend without having
to be at either job. Even so, he would still be working around the house, fixing 
things, getting the recycling together, mowing the lawn. We would see our family
every now and then at parties where the kids would hang out together as all the 
men would get drunk on beer and talk about work, money and everyone back 
home. I don't know how much I missed out on, I wonder if it would have changed
me. I rarely ever take vacations, even now as an adult. The times I have taken 
vacations have tended to be working ones. There is too much to do. A vacation 
would only take time away from my work. 


There were a few times growing up when we visited our family back in the home
country, the one my parents left. I never really got to know my father's parents. 
My mother's parents I know somewhat. I want to, I need to. The distance between
here and there gapes wide inside me. The old country is nothing like here, a small
backwoods town in a second world country. The next time I go back it still won't
be a vacation, at least not in my mind. The weight of history, of reconnection is a
necessary task unto itself. That's not a vacation. I wonder how others do it, how 
they can manage vacations and not enter financial ruin. Some of us might be lucky,
others- not so much. 


I dream about leaving. Not just home, everything. Packing up one small bag and 
going somewhere. I would tell no one, I would disappear as best as I could. I'm
sure that sounds selfish, but if I could, I would. It might not be forever, just for a 
time. Time to be alone, to see things as they truly are in all their cruelty and beauty.
There is always much of both. It would mean freedom, freedom of staggering 
proportions, freedom of unbridled anxiety, freedom to flourish and fail as much
as I am willing to allow. I suppose that is my idea of a vacation. 

The Condition

Speak plainly,

directly.

I couldn't sleep

at such a late

hour. I'm always

waking up

thinking of ruin,

of history 

remembered

and forgotten;

wars fought 

invisibly everyday.

The way the hand

hesitates as it reaches

for the door,

fingers curved 

around the brass knob.

Numerology

It is almost impossible to not

think of our lives in terms of pure numbers.

How much will it cost me? How much do I

need to work to save up enough money?

Today I have to drive at least forty

miles back and forth in traffic to get home.

The list is always growing more and more.

They bleed into the background of our lives

with uncanny stealth, embedded into

places far removed than from mere fractions.

They goad us easily at the gas pump

knowing we are helpless in their presence.

We can seek no armistice in this war,

we cannot resist numeric power.   

American Self Portrait

IT'S NOT THAT 


NO ONE


IS LISTENING




IT'S JUST THAT


EVERY ONE


IS TALKING

This Modern Life

We live our dreams out 
from behind glass screens.

The Cure to Our Ills

There is no triumph in numbers.
There is no salvation through words alone.
Have our senses dulled,
our hearts weakened
through constant glowing streams?
We gorge ourselves greedily
in a hunger that knows no
bottom to its trough.
Captive eyes are only as helpless
as the mind that sits behind them. 
Our great disease is
one of the mind,
one of the heart
grown cold and
confused.
We wield the instrument
to our cure but
are afraid of making
the cut, the sight
of our own blood.