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I killed a bug while doing yoga today

13 Nov

I’ve been programmed to believe that is wrong.

However, in the moment it felt like a perfectly fine thing to do.

I do not regret my actions, though I do have some remorse for the poor critter whose life I shortened though probably not considerably since insects tend to have very short life-spans comparatively speaking. It did pass my mind that I was doing a service of some kind.

I have a healthy sense that I was an instrument in passing. I don’t have guilt. I don’t feel used, but I don’t feel unaffected either.

I thought about killing it. I considered the consequences. It never crossed my mind to capture the thing in a glass jar with a plate underneath like I usually do for scorpions and tarantulas. It was not dangerous or large or too fast for me to catch. It was just there.

It was just there at that precise moment when I was able to reach my shoe (which is usually behind me, out of reach) with one hand while maintaining my balance, kill the thing and continue with my practice.

Afterward, I did think one thought: I killed a bug while doing yoga today.

Suspicion

3 Nov

“People who can’t write verse are paranoid and suspicious about things that rhyme.” – R. Sue

 

 

 

 

People who can’t write sentences are paranoid and suspicious about everything. – J@M

Remember

27 Oct

Remember

Way back then

when I dipped my

big toe in the chocolate

fondue pot and it was all

feng shui in the house we built

around love but I got squirmy ‘cause

it felt too good like that day you tried to

eat it all the way home little piggy style so I got

us a school girl giggle with misspelling who loved cupcakes

even when the jump rope tied to your leg

rendered it inoperable, sooner or now and later

we were tired of wrestling as the floor arched

golden between 67 and 73 was about as high

as we could get before the cavities, after

shots shocked chock-full of cancer

or was it the twins who had

to come to my own conclusions

about whether or not we’d have

room for a view

if we said?

I do.

Our most powerful virtues require solomente: Strength

24 Oct

Why is it that all the strongest virtues (patience, forgiveness, faith, prudence, fortitude) which require no action at all are the hardest to practice?

Lago Arenal nubes

Muchos cielos

An idiom by any other name would smell as sweet

11 Apr
Bluebonnets in spring

Nature abhors a vacuum

The juxtaposition of rock, decaying mulch and vibrant new plant life drew me to this area of the backyard very near where target practice is held. Every evening as the sun finally drops behind the wooden slatted fence, rays of light leak through and illuminate things I’ve never seen before. Things that are there every day but go unseen by anyone until I take a picture and share it. There is nothing else in this bed but more decaying mulch, a few empty pots and a fallen ornamental peacock. His pride prevented him from inclusion. I walk past this rock 16 times to the target after I shoot and 16 times when I return with my arrows. I walk past it 32 times a day, 224 times per week and 960 times per month and every day I see something new.

Mother’s jewels

The bluebonnet flowers have since been provided with rain and sprouted. The tiny droplets of water they caught more precious than diamonds. It’s the only plant I know of that holds water like the Star of India holds light. Their beauty too wild to confine to one garden; they’ve taken over the entire side of the back yard leaving me only a footpath to my target.  A path I’ve walked so many times the flowers learned to bloom around it, up to my knees though I never trampled them. Strange the other side of the yard is completely barren but for the weeds.

Socrates Cafe

2 Dec

I hunger, therefore I am

was my motto at 27

and long before that

I hungered

but knew not what

hunger was.

I satiated my appetite

with danger, lust and

worse, with pain.

I filled the void

like a child instinctively

fills a bucket with sand

and builds a castle.

But I built nothing.

I scratched and clawed

at reason

I bit, and hard

I gnawed at the truth

I swallowed passion like a tonic

and still I searched

for the cure

the meal that would finally

and forever satisfy my hungry

soul – and sometimes I found it

for a moment, with the lights off

on a winding desert road

for an hour in the full moon

face that lit my way

for a day or two

and a night and sometimes more

but as long as I sought

after it

it never lasted.

Dear Sister

2 Dec

it is a great accomplishment

in life

to have succeeded so

to have conquered fear

real or imagined

to be self-sufficient

and more

to be self-reliant

financially stable

and some days even

well-off

to be healthy and happy

and to have beautiful children

to share it with

and to watch grow

and to teach

and one day to set out

on their own.

What a privilege then

it will be

to have a chat on the phone

from far away

about absolutely nothing.

The Battle for Authenticity

10 Oct

In love and war

they say,

All’s fair.

 

But drafted from the battlefield

a declaration of dependence

violence, fear and distrust

is brought into existence

Reclassified as love.

 

We volunteer for this.

 

Our planes – one minute soar

the next – shot down

Our parachutes – one minute open

the next – hung from a tree

Our bodies – one minute able

the next – taken prisoner

Our minds – one minute lucid

the next – held hostage.

 

But the enemy is me.

 

What wages war for freedom fought?

Ego.

 

Ergo,

I surrender.

Overheard @ the Art Museum

2 Aug

She, the voluptuous one

With the violin lips

Satin mocha arms.

And he, the ardent one

Six-stringed and

Witty to boot.

And her, the silent one

The one paraded, coveted

By the rich, the old, the infirm

The newlywed’s gift

The dream of man

The promise of immortality

She sang through her eyes

And we listened

Intently

For a hint at that secret

Her clarinet shoulders

Cooed and babbled

And we took it as god’s grace.

She’s awake again.

It’s your turn.

No, it’s yours.

No, I took her last night.

You’re mistaken. That was me.

No, it wasn’t.

Please, I’m so tired.

But I worked all day.

And I didn’t?

You slaved.

Yes, I did.

I bore her.

Yes, you did.

Let’s go together.

Are you sure? No. I’ll go.

No, let it be me.

If you’re certain.

I am.

I want to.

For you.

Get some sleep.

I’ve got this.

You rest.

I’m going.

ARPAGGIO!

My darling, I am so sorry.

We need you.

I know.

Nutsack Girl

28 Jul

She carried a bag of nuts with her wherever she went. One day I asked her about them and this is what she told me. “These are not your ordinary nuts. These nuts are hard to crack. Some are shaped oddly, some have a thick outer shell, some are slippery and well, you get the point. The fact is that these nuts are a lot like people and I carry this bag around to remind me of that. You have to have just the right tool and just the right technique to crack these nuts. If you don’t do it right, you stand a good chance of getting hurt. Or worse, hurting the tender meat that is sustenance inside the shell.”

Then she lit up a joint and I knew our conversation, at least the part that made sense was now over. “So here’s how it works, sis. Every day I take out one of these nuts and study it just like this.” She slid her long arm bronzed from daily exposure into the small opening she had created by pushing two fingers of each hand into the tiny hole drawn tight by a double drawstring at the top of the bag and gently massaged it open as if she were pulling back the red velvet curtains of a tiny stage. She never looked inside. Letting her arm relax, I could see her wrist and hand begin to writhe inside the bag like arachnid acid. She was getting off on the feeling of the nuts passing between her fingers as she grasped a bunch and let them fall or just let her hand pass underneath them, through them; sensing this one and that with only the deft touch of her left hand. The sound was quite entrancing from my end but that was not her gig. She loved to touch and she was good at it. She continued on like this for some time, letting out a squeal when her hand, which now seemed separated from the rest of her, found some tactile treasure and felt it necessary to share that pleasure with the brain. Her brain was now in a fog so deep it would take hours for her to come back up. She could still register pleasure and pain without the tedious business of thought to bog the whole mechanism down and this is exactly where she sought to be when she got high.

She touched something she liked. I gauged this from her reaction. Her body never lied when she was in this state. She could hide nothing. The tone was lazy this time and more like a moan that she maintained at a lower octave than the others as if to say, oh now this is the one. Then, lazily she threw her head back and with it the hair that had been shielding her face like blinders on a Thoroughbred about to race the Dubai World Cup. Her perfect face now flushed with excitement over the tiny nut she would remove from the bag and attempt to crack. There was a moment of sheer silliness when she realized she had gripped the thing so tightly that her fist made it impossible for her to get her hand out of the hole she had created earlier. She wasn’t tender this time. She pulled the bottom of the bag with her right hand and without loosening her grip, yanked her left fist out of the top, leaving a red mark around the base of her hand where it met her wrist. Why she didn’t just let the drawstring go slack, I didn’t think to wonder about then.

It was a Brazil nut. Nigger toes as dad used to call them. It makes us both cringe to think that there are people related to us who still talk this way. We raise our eyes  simultaneously, but there is no one here to correct or to be embarrassed of. “Brazil nuts only grow in virgin rainforests you know,” I didn’t know. “Not only that but there is only one bee – the bombardier bee – you know the really big one? The one that looks like a B-52? It could just swoop down and bomb your little insect town at any moment.” I know she’s really gone when she starts mixing perspectives like her colossal fondness for WWII aircraft and irrelevant penchant for calling my mons a little insect town, but she’s my sister and I love her. She goes on to tell me about the great coiled hood of the Brazil nut tree’s yellow flower which contains a sweet nectar unlike anything ever tasted by man and that this bomber B-52 bee is the only one with a tongue strong enough to lift the hood and long enough to navigate the coils. Sounds like a legendary invasion my little insect town could hold a parade for or name a street after. Brazil Nut Bee Lane. Yes, lane. Boulevard sounds too spacious and street well, that’s just plain trampy. Lane it is. BNB Lane people would affectionately call it – home of the sweet nectar of the yellow-flowered-Brazilian goddess; a narrow two-laner, recently-paved, smooth and relatively quiet. You wouldn’t want to drive a Cadillac down there though – it’s definitely Not a Thru Street and the three point turn would be a bitch.

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