Raw Material for a piece

He would have had footsteps across the bricks of red square. I wonder what they sounded like. Soft shoes or hard boots. Did the fabric of his pants make sounds as he took purposeful steps towards his destination? Was his smell fresh or repugnant? Was he bald from chemo or from stress? Did he have an ex-wife who found a new husband with full hair or an erect penis? Did he talk with his children? Did his ears react to the wildcat scream of the passing skateboarders or did his eyes focus on the faces of the children walking by? Was his hand steady or clumsy or shakey as he unscrewed the cap from the container? Did the smell of the fumes excite him in the stomach or genitals or legs? Was it warm or cool as it ran over his body and soaked into his jeans? Was this a reminiscent of wetting his pants as a child? What was he afraid of? Did a wind chill him then? How many times did he fail to strike the match? To spark the flint? Were his hands practiced by years of cigarettes or did his virgin fingers pain easily like a day of picking of guitar? How long until he felt the heat in his eyes? Was he ever on a camping trip with his grandfather in the cascades or on the shores of red lake? Was he ever burnt by an oven furnace before? Did he ever receive as much attention as he did now? Was his mind retreated into fantasy or was he alive in the moment with senses blazing? Were his eyes open to a white light or caked shut by boiling flesh? Did he choke on his own smoke line? Was he conscious enough to feel disappointed he didn't die immediately? Was he ever in a spelling bee or first love in middle school? Was it fitting his final words were mumbled incoherently to be repeated later for attention by some cooze who never wore worn out shoes?

Am I right to tell my mother that you cant feel sympathy for everyone? Was it sorrow or irony that brought the rains the next day?

An Observation 2

being back in Minnesota
is being back in who i was 3 months ago
without ever hitting 88 on the freeway home

leaving the house as a shamed pup
i take off my shoes so they stop tearing at my ankles
and walk night sidewalks
that will be buried 3 feet cold in another 3 months
my feet are so sensitive that i have to walk on the gutter

i think about Katie
and about old money and the smell of her Kentucky air
and my fingers spread at my side
in a phantom romantic gesture

i sob uncontrollably on the swingset at the park
i twitch when she says she now makes love

Writing Exercise 5

Word: Risorial

risorial muscles twitch
spasms like a dying insect
when the station is set to static hiss
my eyes water in hedonistic bliss
or the wild eye fear of a star slaughtered cow
at the sound of the wet death at the head of row
and like cracked falling leaves from a bough
my brain body disconnect is out of control

Writing Exercise 4

Word: Catastrophism

slick Buffalo roads and the haze
of a night time rain illuminated by white headlight
seven flips into the long grass ditch
an early labor
an emergency caesarean
in the nearest hospital with nurses in white keds

a husbands white face pocked with new scars
watching like a doe
as his bride turns pale without much blood

miracle
divine or odds
a mother holds her pasty newborn
in the soft glow of moonlight

An Observation

hearing Greg talk about God
and his love flowing through us all the time
and how I should be a faithful bride
and reject the conventional wisdom of Religion
will always make me sob like a widow
at 3 in the morning

Writing Exercise 3

Word: Punctilious

for joseph:

today
on the driveway and street
you and i
adoptive little brother
created a mural with pastel chalk
of boxy robots, breastless cheerleaders,
gillless mackerel, and noseless heroes

the laws of physics ignored
shapes were meaningless
and fingers were dusty
as you and i
my summer friend
sniped womp rats on a paved Tatooine

The Garden [V2]

a warm morning
she walks the cold dew of the grass to the garden
with bare calloused soles

she rests on her knees at the edge of the bed
bare hands working slowly
blending earth and flesh
a woman as a mother

with wisdom of depth her
pained fingers bury the bulb of an iris
into the warm soil
with wisdom she will wait
for a birth that is sure to come

careful fingers pack the soil

her wrists are moist and black
as the sun dips west
knees groaning as she
stands to feel a soft whisper from the east
with closed eyes her fingers move
like boughs
to her bare belly

Writing Exercise 2

for emilee


Word: Nutmeg

walking in the moon shadow of the old sawdust mill
where our grandfathers all worked for years
you let your cigarette hit the glossy pavement
and tell me with infant eyes
with catholic eyes
that you need India
where you have read that the air smells like spice

The Garden [V1]

a warm morning
she walks into the garden with bare feet and hands
cold dew on the grass
soft clumps of dirt clinging to her toughened soles

she rests on her knees at the edge of the bed
hands working slowly
blending earth and flesh
a woman as a mother

strong lucid fingers pushing bulbs of an iris
deep into the soil
with a wisdom of depth
and birth that is sure to come

soft careful fingers pack the soil

her wrists and forearms are moist and
black as the sun dips west
her calloused knees are worn
she stands to feel a soft whisper from the east
closing her eyes her fingers move
like boughs
to her belly

Writing Exercise 1

Word: Morae

in a room alive with electronic whispers
and nervous ticks
i gaze out my window

eyes unfocused like Loveless
hands moving with Baoding
mind moving like Mangum

in an instant i feel God
and in an instant it is gone

Roadside Romantic [V4]

the road to the reservation
is pockmarked with forgotten relics
lost to the avaricious fingers of time

there is a rusted out car older than me
the way your father is older than you
a car that once had nicotine stained hands on the wheel
and warm impressions on the seat
like a glowing ember resting in the snow
now it lies dormant and alone in a field of weeds and grass
with a for sale sign perpetually in its windshield

there is a small withering stream surviving deep within
the gorge below a wooden bridge
the walls of the canyon are far wider than the stream itself
an echo from a more powerful time when water
was the most dominant force on earth
but the stream will never disappear
only change direction
depth and disposition

an abandoned gas station on the side of the road
with chipping paint and a roof collapsed by a fallen tree
the windows are covered by cheap rotting plywood that you
could find propped up against any dumpster
written on the facade with black spray paint
temporarily closed
in lazy looping words like you would find
in a child's handwriting book

there is a fire hydrant hidden in the tangled brush
with no building to become a blaze for miles
no destruction to give it life
further down the road is a stoplight hanging from tethers
more noose than tightrope
and the burning color of purpose has long since left

the looming pines that line the path to the reservation
act as a guide and a shepherd for these forgotten relics
ushering them into the memory of a
roadside romantic

The Road to the Reservation [V3]

leaving the stagnant air of your humid room
and the oily smell of the city behind
as a silhouette against the setting summer sun
we head for the reservation
with windows wide
your nicotine stained hands on the wheel
my tired writer eyes on the long shadows in front of us

wind blows in harshly
it carries a hint of escape on it
billowing through our loose clothes
creating ripples in the fabric
the moisture on our skin amplifies every sensation
a shiver runs up my spine and arms

when the hard industrial cityscape opens up
the air is thick with the smell of a sweating earth
each powerful breath across the vast fields of tall grass
creates a lazy sway
a drowsy dance

your hand leaves the wheel
to search for your last cigarette in the pack
slightly losing control
you hold it between your lips a moment
savoring or hoping or regretting
then igniting and engulfing us both with smoke that slides
out past your still tongue
the car quivers rhythmically for miles as you take each drag

we reach the reservation at dusk
you buy your cigarettes while i wait out in the car
watching other people with nicotine stained hands pull into the dirt lot
we turn to leave with sunlight waning
the suspended glow of day receding in front of us

we roll up our windows as a raw cold creeps into our bodies
and darkness creeps between the trunks and branches of the pines
we watch the slow ascension and vanishing of tail lights
over distant hills in silence
only the white noise from the engine
and the muted crackle of your burning cigarette

so many cars on the way back had their lights on
and so many did not

Roadside Romantic [V3]

the road to the reservation
is pockmarked with forgotten relics
lost to the avaricious fingers of time

there is a rusted out car older than me
the way your father is older than you
a car that once had nicotine stained hands on the wheel
and warm impressions on the seat
like a glowing ember resting in the snow
now it lies dormant and alone in a field of weeds and grass
with a for sale sign perpetually in its windshield

there is a small withering stream surviving deep within
the gorge below a wooden bridge
the walls of the canyon are far wider than the stream itself
an echo from a more powerful time when water
was the most dominant force on earth
but the stream will never disappear
only change direction
depth and disposition

there is an abandoned gas station
with windows covered by cheap rotting plywood that you
could find propped up against a dumpster
the paint is chipping and a fallen tree has collapsed the roof
written on the facade with black spray paint
temporarily closed
in lazy looping words like you would find
in a child's handwriting book

there is a fire hydrant hidden in the tangled brush
with no building to become a blaze for miles
no destruction to give it life
further down the road is a stoplight hanging from tethers
more noose than tightrope
and the burning color of purpose has long since left

the looming pines that line the path to the reservation
act as a guide and a shepherd for these forgotten relics
ushering them into the memory of a
roadside romantic

Roadside Romantic [V2]

the road to the reservation
is pockmarked with forgotten objects
lost to the greedy fingers of time

there is a rusted out car older than me
the way your father is older than you
with a for sale sign hanging in the windshield
i always expected the signs to be blown away
by a strong wind coming through the opening where a door should be
the next time i drove by
but it was there all summer

there is a small withering stream surviving deep within
the gorge below a wooden bridge
the walls of the canyon are far wider than the stream itself
an echo of a more powerful time when water
was the most dominant force on earth
but the stream will never disappear
only change direction
depth and disposition

there is a run down abandoned gas station
with windows covered by cheap rotting plywood that you
could find propped up against a dumpster
the paint is chipping and a fallen tree has collapsed the roof
written on the facade with black spray paint
temporarily closed
in lazy looping words like you would find
in a child's handwriting book

there is a fire hydrant hidden in the tangled brush
with no building to become a blaze for miles
no destruction to give it life
further down the road is a stoplight hanging from tethers
more noose than tightrope
and the burning color of purpose has long since left

the looming pines that line the path to the reservation
act as a guide and a shepherd for these
forgotten objects
ushering them into the memory
of a roadside romantic

Reservation Purpose [V1]

the road to the reservation
is pockmarked with forgotten objects
lost within the lushly sprouting land

there are rusted out cars older than me
with for sale signs hanging loosely in the windshield
i always expected the sign to be blown away
by a strong wind through the doorless passenger side
the next time i came by
but it was there all summer

there is a small withering stream surviving deep within
the gaping gorge with the wooden bridge
the walls of the canyon are far wider than the stream itself
an echo of a more powerful time when water
was the most dominant force on earth
but the stream will never disappear and only change
direction and depth and disposition

there is run down abandoned gas station
with windows covered by cheap rotting plywood that you
could find propped up against a dumpster
the paint is chipping and a fallen tree has collapsed the roof
there are lazy looping words on the facade written in black spray paint
temporarily closed

there is a fire hydrant hidden in the tangled brush
with no sign of man for miles spare the road
a relic of the hopes of the past
further down the road is a stoplight hanging from tethers
more noose than tightrope
and the burning color of purpose has long since left

the looming pines that line the path to the reservation
act as a guide and a shephard for these
forgotten objects
ushering them into memory

The Road to the Res [V2]

leaving the thick stagnant air of the humid room
and the oily black smell of the city behind
as a silhouette against the setting sun
we head for the reservation
with windows wide
your nicotine stained hands on the wheel
my tired writer eyes on the long shadows in front of us

wind billows in harshly
blowing through our loose summer clothes
creating ripples in the soft flowing fabric
cooling our wet salty skin and sends a trail
of goosebumps up my arms and spine
it carries the hint of nature on it

smells of moist orange earth flood the car
when the hard industrial cityscape opens up
to vast fields of tall grass swaying lazily
and the scent of wet mossy rocks rises up
as we pass out over the gorge with the content stream far below
cutting calmly through red bedrock

your hands leave the wheel
to search for your last cigarette in the pack
you hold it between your lips a moment
savoring or hoping or regretting
then igniting and filling the air with smoke that slides
from out past your still tongue
the car quivers rhythmically for miles as you take each drag

we reach the reservation at dusk
you buy your cigarettes while i wait out in the car
watching other people with nicotine hands pull into the dirt lot
we turn to leave with the sun falling below the horizon
the suspended glow of day receding in front of us

dark brings on cold and we roll up the windows
watching the slow ascension and vanishing of tail lights
over distant hills in silence
only the white noise from the engine
and the muted crackling burn of your cigarette

so many cars on the way back had their lights on
and so many did not

The Res 1 [V1]

leaving the oily black smell of the city behind
as a silhouettes against a setting sun
and blurred by exhaust
we leave for the reservation
with windows wide
in search of cheap cigarettes and cheap inspiration

wind blowing through our loose summer clothes
creating ripples in soft flowing fabric
the rush dissipates the warmth that clings to our bodies
from the thick stagnant air of the room
and carries whispers of nature on it

smells of moist orange earth flood the car
as the cityscape opens up to vast fields
and wet mossy rocks as we cross the
feeble wood of a rotting bridge over a quiet stream
that cuts through red bedrock

your hands leave the wheel
to search for your last cigarette in the pack
you hold it between your lips a moment
before igniting the air with smoke that quickly escapes
out the window and drifts up through the pines
the car quivers rhythmically for miles as you take each drag

we reached the res at dusk and got cigarettes
then turned to leave with the suspended glow of day receding in front of us
dark brought on the cold and we rolled up the windows
we watched the slow ascension and vanishing of tail lights
over distant hills in silence
only the hum of the engine and breathing

so many cars on the way back had their lights on
and so many did not

Res ideas

leaving the oily black smell of the city
windows down on the long straight road to the res

the smell of wet moss rocks
as you cross the bridge

smell of orange wet earth

quiver of the car as you light up
another cigarette or drink of coke

tail lights slow ascension up a
distant hill

cold air rushing around us as
the warmth of the room leaves us
shivers up my arms and spine
leaves goosebumps

then a warm breath comes off
the pines with the smell of timber

lighter grey sky and silhouette black
pines with the glow of a faraway
city on the horizon

it was night on the way back
it was cold
we rolled up the windows

so many cars had their lights on
and so many didnt

________________________

night lightning storms
several strikes per second
lighting up the sky and making day

each flash reveals the immensity
of the clouds ahead of us
separated and independent giants

the power gets knocked out of
the city and our headlights
were all that remained on the
road to the res

wind thrashed at our sides and
pushed us onto the yellow lines as
thunder shook our windows
inside the hot breath of the
engine across my face and chest
closed my eyes

im protected
and back in the womb
when i woke you had fresh cigarettes
and i was reborn

____________________________

the long narrow road to the res
impossibly narrow and straight
a streak of pavement through pines

wind blowing through our loose clothes
creating ripples in fabric

rusted out cars for sale on the
side of the road

a small wither creek

an abandoned run down gas station

looming pines creating a wall or
a shephard

a lonely trampoline in a field

a forgotten fire hydrant

a purposeless stop light

The Photographer [V3]

She was an artist in the general sense. More specifically she was a photographer. She loved taking pictures with friends when they made wild faces, at school when she thought the classroom had a certain aesthetic, in the park when the grass felt cool under her bare feet. She loved the limits the polaroid’s frame offered after it slid out the other side. It provided her with a sense of perspective on the things around her that she couldn’t ever fully understand. She loved the feeling of solidity that it gave her, the things in each shot existed outside of what she saw with her eyes, they were independent of her life. It gave them life. She loved photography.

She also liked to organize the photos into albums in neat symmetrical patterns in a strictly chronological order. She liked to get out her clear blue ruler and measure the exact number of half-inches in from the sides in order to align the four photos on each page in the perfect place. She enjoyed the patience and diligence that went into this work and the feeling of self-accomplishment that followed. She enjoyed the hours she poured into these albums, adding captions and borders and pages of more photos. She did this when there were quiet moments alone, or when there were quiet moments in class, or when there were quiet moments at the park. She loved photography.

He hated her for her love. He only ever saw her for an hour and a half in the one class they shared. Unless either was sick or he skipped to go smoke, then it was slightly less. But he hated her for those few hours. He would watch her from across the room, watch her mindlessly measuring and adjusting and re-measuring and pasting her photographs into her albums as their teacher tautologously preached ethics. He hated the way she would only look down at her photos, not blinking for minutes at a time. He hated her self-absorption and the way her tongue would sometimes creep out from behind her lips as she slowly pasted down a corner. He hated everyone else in the class for not hating her the way he did. His hate consumed him for those few hours each day. But once in a while his hate would spill into the evenings and ruin his cigarettes. Or sometimes his hate would leak into the weekends and ruin his nights. And sometimes after that his hate would surge through his mind and send electricity through his bones as he had sex or when he masturbated or when he day dreamed. Some days after school when he would light up his cigarette, breathe it in absentmindedly, and say to no one in specific, “I’m gonna burn those fucking photos some day.”

And then one cool October day he did. It was more of a sudden impulse than anything planned or thought out. She was sitting on a bench outside the school taking a photo of the trees becoming vibrantly bare when the hate boiled up in his throat. He ripped the album from off the bench and flipped it open. He saw a photograph of her painted toe nails in the nearly green grass lighted by a summer sun, a photo of a merry-go-round with two young children smiling widely, a photo of a sunset intensified by the deadly fires of the west, and a photo of the girl with an empty smile standing next to some friends with emptier eyes. His body flared with hate and then his lighter flared from butane and then the album flared with flames.

She didn’t put up a fight, she didn’t protest or even stand up. She hardly even blinked. She met his eyes and held them for a long moment with a passive stare, her eyes glossy like a camera lens. The acrid smell of burned chemicals stung his eyes and sent tears streaming down his cheeks. He wanted her to feel something, to hurt her badly, he wanted to grab hard onto her cheeks and drive his thumbs deep into her eye sockets, to crush the glass lenses. But he just stared, letting the cool October breeze put out the little flames of the album and pushing his tears off their course. The girl raised her camera, clicked, and walked away.

She was an artist in the general sense.

The Lifeguard [V3]

Everyday he would take the same route to the beach. And every day he would slowly walk the same path from his car to his post, letting his body adjust to the tension of the sun. And every day he would sit atop his post, his eyes squinting, looking out over the ocean and he would think about all the women he hated. He never had to look very far, they were around him at every moment; in town, in shops, in libraries, at home, and especially at the beach. There were women with skin that darkened under the sun, women that wore little or nothing, and women who laughed heavily about nothing and thought little about everything. There were women who revered Marilyn Monroe, women who were in love with their body and whose universe did not extend past their lightly freckled skin. There were women who didn’t read Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy or London or Thoreau or Nietzsche. Their gods lied within the glossy pages of a magazine, or a romance novel written with the basic formula that all romance novels follow. These women had no passion in their lives; they had no art, no literature, no control, they had no purpose to their life other than tanning and fucking.

So ever day he would sit perfectly still on top of his post and stare at them through his dark aviator glasses, observing and hating, letting the strangling heat of the sun beat down over his body. Sometimes when the heat was unusually overwhelming he would let his hate separate his mind from his crude, sweating body, and let it drift across philosophies and religions and meanings. He knew that God was dead, and he knew that religion was a crutch, and that you had to create your own purpose in life. He knew that nature was the only thing that was still beautiful anymore, and that it was the only thing that could still move him. He knew that someday he would leave the beach and its women behind to find his own salvation in the wild. He knew that no one else could comprehend this and that made him alone.

He felt he had to gain complete control over his own body. He needed to discipline it, to ignore and abuse it. He needed to make it suffer through starvation and pain, to let his body know that it was not associated with his mind. To assert that his body could not touch the infinite purity of his mind was important to him. He would not allow himself to become one of the endless women on the beach who saw their bodies as a pinnacle and summation of beauty in the world, as something to be relished. He knew the human form was ugly and detestable, that it didn’t provide an accurate representation of his self.

He could not let the ignorance of the world taint his soul.

This is what he would think of every day, atop his post, eyes gazing across the expanse of the ocean, with the thick heat of the sun washing over him. He loved how his hate separated his mind from his body, and the separation it created between himself and every other person on the beach. He knew that he was not like any of them and his hatred was confirmation. And witnessing their behavior at the beach allowed him justification.

One day while he was lost in thought under the pressure of the sun, someone yelled from far away. At first he absorbed it, allowing it to fuel his hatred for a little longer. But the yelling grew louder and drew nearer and soon it became discernable from the hiss of the waves. A woman with streaked golden hair and horror streaked eyes was running towards him. She was out of breath and fell to her knees when she reached the bottom of his post, drawing in oxygen with sharp gasps, heaving out her words in short blasts. Someone was drowning.

For a moment he gazed at the woman, running his eyes over her hair, eyes, skin and shape. Her hair was still dripping from salty ocean water and sweat, and her chest was rapidly rising and falling, and with the strange position she had fallen to, she had the appearance of an injured animal. He was disgusted by her appearance and a grimace grew across his face as he watched her completely deteriorate in the reflective sand.

His eyes then slowly turned towards the horizon and he scanned the glassy surface of the water. A little ways out he saw something thrashing in the water, causing little ripples in the surrounding area. He imagined the panic they were feeling; the hot flashes surging through their body, the dulling of rational thought as the water filled their lungs. He wondered what was running through their mind now that death was so close, so imminent. Did they regret not thinking more heavily about art and literature and philosophy and religion? Did they regret their shallow life? Did they realize how pointless their existence had been? Or did they simply go into a frenzy, desperately trying to dig their nails into what little life they had left? He wondered if their eyes resembled those of a cow’s when they hear the wet death of the ones ahead of them in the slaughter line. He thought that they probably did.

So he simply sat there and watched the little ripples become smaller and less frequent until they were completely swallowed by the greater ebb and flow of the ocean. When there was no longer any disturbance across the smooth surface, a sense of envy overcame him. He speculated whether or not they ever truly appreciated the beauty of their situation, completely escaping their body. As the woman beneath him continued to yell and shake violently in disbelief, little streaks ran down his cheeks, catching slightly on his upturned lips before dropping onto the waiting sand below.

Almost [V4]

fingers drifted across your darkened skin like the
building shadows from the slow smooth
descent of a summer sun behind the gentle curve of the west
I tried vainly to memorize the
last warm dissipating rays before they
left me desolate

arms tensed around your waist like the
eternal pull of the earth on a lustrous moon
invisibly powerful and
evocative of a stellar waltz in a
vacant ball room after everyone else has gone off into the
night or bedrooms
but the moon is quietly slipping away
losing grip with each graceful turn in the dark

your ethereal eyes were in mine
the soft burn of a million clustered stars that reveal themselves
to the romantics who leave the modern cities
scanning the skies for love and inspiration
only to realize that all those brilliant beacons in heaven have already
died years ago in a cosmic
sigh and collapse

I nearly kissed you
tender pink flesh parted waiting
for warmth but feeling cold static air instead
it was almost remembering a dream of unreal beauty and color before it is
swallowed by the vacuum at the
back of your mind

I opened my eyes to the painful brightness of
another new-day sun still low in the sky
the night and dreams of an almost amorous age already
evaporated into the atmosphere
I lowered my teeming head
hesitated then staggered east leaving
warmth behind me

Almost [V3]

fingers drift across your darkened skin
like the building shadows from
the slow smooth descent of a summer sun
behind the gentle curve of the west
I try vainly to memorize
the last warm dissipating rays
before they leave me desolate

arms tense around your waist
like the eternal pull earth on a lustrous moon
invisibly powerful and evocative
of a stellar waltz in a vacant ball room
after everyone else has gone off into the night or their bedrooms
but the moon is quietly slipping away
losing grip with each graceful turn in the dark

your ethereal eyes in mine
the soft burn of a million clustered stars
that reveal themselves to the romantics
who leave the modern cities scanning the skies for love and inspiration
only to realize that all those brilliant beacons in heaven
have already died years ago
in a cosmic sigh and collapse

nearly kissing you
tender pink flesh parted waiting for warmth
but feeling cold static air instead
was almost remembering a dream
of unreal beauty and color
before it is swallowed by the vacuum at
the back of your mind

opening my eyes to the painful brightness of
another new-day sun still low in the sky
I lowered my head and moved east
leaving warmth behind me

Almost [V2]

fingers drift across your tanned skin
like the slow smooth decent of the sun
behind the gentle curve of the west
as you try vainly to memorize
the last warm rays dissipate
before leaving you desolate

arms around your waist
like earths eternal pull on the lustrous moon
invisibly powerful and evocative
of a stellar waltz in a vacant ball room
but each slowly slipping away
losing grip with each graceful turn

eyes in mine
the soft burn of a million clustered stars
that reveal themselves to the romantics
when they leave the modern city
but all those brilliant beacons
have already died yeas ago

nearly kissing you
like almost remembering a dream
of unreal beauty and color
before it is swallowed by the vacuum of
the back of your mind

opening my eyes to the painful
brightness of a another new-day sun
still low in the sky
waiting on what no one knows
I lower my head and move east
leaving warmth behind me

Almost [V1]

fingers across your skin
the smooth dipping of the sun
behind the curve of the west
and the last warm rays leave you shivering

my arms around your waist
like earths pull on the moon
invisibly powerful
but slowly slipping away

your eyes with mine
the soft burn of a million clustered stars
when you leave the city
but the country isn't a home for me

nearly kissing you
like almost remembering a dream
that is swallowed by the vacuum of
the back of your mind

opening my eyes to the painful
brightness of a new-day sun
i lower my head and move east
leaving warmth behind me

Observations on a Storm [V3]

calignous clouds billow up from the ocean
expanding to fill the sky
like steam surging from an ethereal train
the air hisses and strains with movement

a vast shadow covers the town and forest
warmth dissipates from the atmosphere
and the fauna tightens with anxiety
apprehensive silence falls over man and animal
the little singing birds retreat into thick winding branches

the boughs shiver
vacillating in strained sweeping arcs
their leaves glint rapidly in the wind
and nature waits

with a muted distant rumble that crescendos
with spine-tingling celerity
the rain comes hard with the sound of
a million angry cicadas

a great wind picks up and pushes the storm eastward
the tension in the air dissipates with a sigh
as cracks appear in the lowery grey
and gold streams pour through like a heavenly cataract

the light spreads out in all directions
illuminating a world that is wet and waxed
soft glows come off leaves and grass
shingles and telephone wires
steam rises patiently off the glossy pavement
and a little song bird takes a tentative step
out into the gleam of day

he pauses for a moment
the sun warming his small brown body
then a flicker of feathers as he takes flight

Observations of a Storm [V2]

calignous clouds billow up from the ocean
expanding to fill the sky
like steam surging from an ethereal train
the air hisses and strains with movement

a vast shadow covers the town and the forest
warmth dissipates from the atmosphere
and the fauna tightens in anxiety
apprehensive silence falls over man and animal
the little singing birds retreat into thick winding branches

the boughs shiver
vacillating in long waving motions
their leaves glint rapidly in wind
the anxiety builds as nature waits for the rain

with a muted distant rumble that crescendos
with spine-tingling celerity
the rain comes hard with the sound of
a million angry cicadas

a great wind picks up and pushes the storm eastward
the tension in the air dissipates with a sigh
as cracks appear in the lowery grey
with gold streams pouring through like a holy cataract

the light spreads out in all directions
illuminating a world that is
wet and waxed
soft glows come off leaves and grass
shingles and telephone wires
steam rises patiently off the glossy pavement
and a little bird takes a tentative step
out into the gleam of day

the little bird pauses for a moment
the sun warming his small brown body
then a flicker of feathers as he takes flight

Storms [V1]

calignous clouds billow up from the ocean
expanding to fill the sky
like steam surging from an ethereal train
the air hisses and strains with movement

a vast shadow covers the town and the forest
and the people and wildlife fall silent in anticipation
the little singing birds retreat into thick winding branches

the boughs shiver
vacillating in long waving motions
their leaves glint rapidly in wind
the rain comes hard with the sound of
a million angry cicadas

a great wind picks up and pushes the storm eastward
cracks in the lowery grey appear
with gold streams pouring through like a cataract

the light spreads out in all directions
illuminating a world that is
wet and waxed
soft glows come off leaves and grass
shingles and telephone wires
steam rises patiently off the glossy pavement
and a little bird takes a tentative step
out into the gleam of day

coming out from shade of a bush
the little bird pauses for a moment
the sun warming his small brown body
then a flicker of feathers as he takes flight

Matrix 2 [V3]

“Listen, Frank, I appreciate what you’re sayin’ but the Giants don’t stand a lick of a chance against the Superbas this year. I can feel it already, back to back to back pennants,” Daniel said, tossing some dusty rocks into a wheelbarrow with a wide smile.

“Daniel, you’re a regular bonehead, you know that? The Giants have the pennant in the bag with Davis at short. A solid defensive shortstop is all a ball club needs,” Frank replied through a full beard as he wiped his calloused hands on his crusty overalls and stood up, looking down at Daniel.

“Ah, my dear older brother, though I will agree that a hanging defense is a necessity, what respectable ball club doesn’t have a decent pitcher?” Daniel shot back, holding an index finger up in the air then pointing it accusingly at Frank’s chest to emphasize his point, his blue eyes alive with energy.

“Mathewson is a killer pitcher. His fadeaway is gonna have your precious Keelerhit and the rest of Brooklyn fanning all season. He’s twice the pitcher that double crossing Rusie ever was,” Frank responded, slapping Daniel’s hand away from his chest.

“That’s a load of bunk. Mathewson isn’t worth a jitney. At least with Rusie the Giants were a challenge. No, Mathewson is no Rusie, and he is certainly no McGinnity. Now there is a pitcher worth talking about. Truly the Lord in Heaven has touched that boy’s arm. A true Superba. A true Dodger.” Daniel said, making a sign of the cross over himself and closing his eyes in mock prayer.

Frank shoved him in the shoulders, “Dammit, Daniel, you shouldn’t be sayin’ things like that!”

Daniel stumbled backwards and tripped over a toolbox, landing hard on his back. He glared up at Frank, “Lay off, no need to go getting so snarky about it. I didn't mean any offense by it, you schmuck.” Daniel held out his hand for Frank to help him back up, “All I’m saying is that 1901 is gonna be another winning year for the Brooklyn Superbas. That’s all there is, there ain’t no more.”

As Daniel was helped up he looked up into the air, squinting from the painful brilliance of the summer sky. He ran his eyes over the steel rods that were the framework of the building that he and Frank were on construction for. Daniel thought they looked like bony fingers reaching up from the earth, trying to grab the sun. “I can’t believe anyone thinks ol’ Burnham’s Folly will stay up, it’s a God damned triangle for crying out loud. Nothing that high will ever stay up. ”

“You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain like that. Mom wouldn't like it and you know I hate it." Frank added with a tone of grave seriousness.

Daniel, realizing the sudden turn in the conversation, turned to face his brother."Ya know Frank, I can't believe you still buy into that crap. God is dead. Everyone knows it."

All the joviality of the previous conversation was gone now. "Shut up with that. If Mom heard you talking like that she'd call you out on the carpet."

Frank had never understood Daniel’s outlook on religion. He wasn’t like the rest of their Catholic family. He didn’t go to church on Sunday and say his prayers at night. Ever since he had started reading his philosophy books he had become completely defiant of the church and anyone who associated with it. He stopped attending church all together a few weeks back, saying he no longer had a need for that “house of false hope”.

Frank turned his back on his brother in frustration, returning to loading the rubble into the wheelbarrow.

They both worked in silence for an hour, too bitter at one another to be the first to break the silence. After many trips of moving the endless supply of bedrock to a pile away from the site, Frank looked up and saw an unfamiliar figure walking towards them. “Aw shit, here comes the new guy. I forgot we had some more hands comin' on today."

Daniel looked up as well, putting his hand over his eyes to block the sun, "Probably some just off the boat mick whose gonna slow us down like hell.”

The man walked up to them in his unstained work boots, fresh overalls, and white undershirt. His appearance was plain in almost every way other than a bright red cross with golden vines growing around it that was pinned to his overalls over his heart. His face was soft yet focused as he took short, awkward steps towards them. He looked as if his body was completely new to him and was still figuring out how to work it right. A look between Frank and Daniel expressed their collective concern. As he drew nearer they both noticed the man kept his eyes on the ground. Daniel hesitated a moment, then stuck his hand out towards the stranger.

"Name’s Daniel Avery and this here’s my side kick and brother Frank,” Daniel introduced, shaking hands and nodding his head towards Frank who had his hands on his hips presenting a tough front. “Pretty much what we do is take all this rubble here, and wheel it over there out of the way. It’s nothing hard and it’s good honest work for a man at 15 cents an hour. So what’s your name, fella?”

“John,” the man answered simply, in a quietly reserved tone.

“Well it’s nice to have you on, John. Now how about you help me and Frank toss some of these stones into the wheelbarrows and break our backs for the sake of progress?”

The three men went back to the pile, loading up rocks, and wheeling them over to the other pile further off site and dumping them. They went back and forth for hours as the sun rose higher into the sky, escaping the grasp of the rigid steel fingers of the forming Fuller Building. As the sun moved overhead the heat intensified and pushed heavily upon the construction workers, causing sweat to drip from their brows and their movement to become sluggish. The heat added more weight to each rock that needed to be lifted, and made the wheelbarrows harder to push. The wood of the handlebars grew white hot in the light making each back and forth trip a rite of passage for the workers.

Once while Frank was at the pile on the other side of the site, Daniel leaned against the cool dark side of a steel pillar that was near where he and John were working. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe down his face, then once again stared up into the blue sky.

“So what do you think of all this, John?”

John kept his eyes down, focusing on piling more stones into his cart, giving no indication that he had heard Daniel.

“People see this building going up and think it’s a regular humdinger. People like Frank who are too close minded to see it for what it is. 'A lollapalooza. A crowning achievement of modern society,' they say, but I don’t see that at all.” Daniel looked back over to John to look for a response, but got none.

Daniel continued, speaking to the sky. “No, I don’t see at all what they see. This skyscraper is exactly that, it’s grating against the world. Once we finish this building and all the others like it they will tear a hole in the sky, like a knife pressed against soft flesh, and all Hell is gonna pour out. All this industrializing isn’t good for man’s soul. Those false prophet tycoons with their material goods are all corrupting society. Rockefeller’s oil and Judah’s railroad, they’re all just new avenues for slave-morality. Nietzsche got it all right.”

Daniel seemed completely outside of himself now. His voice grew louder as his blue eyes became watery and pupils dilated. “The loss of human dignity today as we are sent into the industrial shops is horrifying. Men falling into meat grinders, children losing fingers to harsh chemicals, it’s unnatural. There’s godless cement spreading out of the cities like blood from a dead animal. But no one gives a shit. Everyone’s letting their eyes adjust to the darkness of the machine world as they move out of God's light. Everyone’s become worse than the most brutal tribes of the wild, more ruthless than jungle law. Everyone is biting and scratching to get one more penny ahead in life at the expense of every paddy and ginzo that stands in their way, the f***ing will to power. Manifest Destiny and the American Dream have become man’s dying words, the words that killed God...”

Daniel suddenly trailed off realizing that he had just spilt so much of his inner anxieties to this stranger. He turned back to see John’s reaction and saw that John was standing up, staring directly at him with powerful, ethereal eyes. Daniel opened his mouth to speak but lost the air in his lungs. He stammered silently, slack jawed, and fell still. They stared at each other for a few moments before Frank returned and broke the intensity.

“Hey Daniel, let’s hotfoot up to Hanley’s and get a pint before headin' home.”

Frank set his barrel down and walked away without looking up, leaving John and Daniel to continue staring at one another. After a moment, John slowly nodded and turned away, walking into the distance. Daniel fell to his knees, his eyes still unblinking, as small tears began to form in his bright blue eyes.

Matrix 2 Part 1 [V2]

“Listen, Frank, I appreciate what you’re sayin’ but the Giants don’t stand a lick of a chance against the Superbas this year. I can feel it already, back to back to back pennants,” Daniel said, tossing some dusty rocks into a wheelbarrow. He was a younger man in his early 20s and gave off an energetic aura. He was smiling wide as he often did, his bright blue eyes alive with excitement and youth.

“Daniel, you’re a regular bonehead, you know that? The Giants have the pennant in the bag with Davis at short. A solid defensive shortstop is all a ball club needs,” Frank replied as he wiped his calloused hands on his crusty overalls.

“Ah, my dear older brother, though I will agree that a hanging defense is a necessity, what respectable ball club doesn’t have a decent pitcher?” Daniel shot back, holding an index finger up in the air then pointing it accusingly at Frank’s chest to emphasize his point.

“Mathewson is a killer pitcher, you goop. His fadeaway is gonna have your precious Keelerhit and the rest of Brooklyn fanning all season. He’s twice the pitcher than that double crossing Rusie,” Frank responded, slapping Daniel’s hand away from his chest.

“Pardon me, but that is a load of bunk. Mathewson isn’t worth a jitney. At least with Rusie the Giants presented a challenge. No, Mathewson is no Rusie, and he is certainly no McGinnity. Now there is a pitcher worth talking about. Truly the Lord in Heaven has touched that boy’s arm. A true Superba. A true Dodger.” Daniel said, making a sign of the cross over himself and closing his eyes as if in mock deep prayer.

Frank shoved him in the shoulders, “Dammit, Daniel, you shouldn’t be sayin’ things like that, you blasphemous louse!”

Daniel stumbled backwards as he was much smaller than Frank, and tripped over a toolbox, landing hard on his back. He glared up at Frank, “Lay off, no need to go getting so snarky about it, you schumck. I didn't mean any offense by it, you religious nut.” Daniel held out his hand for Frank to help him back up, “All I’m saying is that 1901 will be another winning year for the Brooklyn Superbas. That’s all there is, there ain’t no more.”

As Daniel was helped up he looked up into the air, squinting from the painful brilliance of the summer sky. He ran his eyes over the steel rods that were the framework of the building that he and Frank were on construction for. They looked like bony fingers reaching up from the earth, trying to grab the sun. “I can’t believe anyone thinks ol’ Burnham’s Folly will stay up, it’s a God damned triangle for crying out loud. Nothing that high will ever stay up. ”

“You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain like that. Mom wouldn't like it and you know I hate it." Frank added with a tone of grave seriousness.

Daniel, realizing the sudden turn in the conversation, squinted his eyes at his brother."Don't bring God into any of this, Frank. I can't believe you still buy into that crap. God is dead, everyone knows it."

All the joviality of the previous conversation was gone now. "Shut up with that bunk. If Mom, God rest her soul, heard you talking about that she'd call you out on the carpet."

Frank had never understood Daniel’s outlook on religion. He wasn’t anything like the rest of their Catholic family. He didn’t just go to church on Sunday and say his prayers at night. Ever since he had started reading Nietzsche he had become completely defiant of the church and anyone who associated with it. He stopped attending church all together a few weeks back, saying he no longer had a need for that house of false hope.

Frank turned his back on his brother in frustration, returning to loading the rubble into the wheelbarrow.

They both worked in silence for an hour, too bitter at each other to be the first one to break the silence. After many trips of moving the endless supply of bedrock Frank looked up and saw an unfamiliar figure walking towards them. “Aw shit, here comes the new guy, I forgot we had some more hands comin' on today."

Daniel looked up as well, putting his hand over his eyes to block the sun, "Probably some just off the boat mick whose gonna slow us down like hell.”

The man walked up to them in his yet unstained work boots, overalls, and undershirt. His appearance was plain in almost every way other than a bright red cross with golden vines growing around it that was pinned to his overalls over his heart. Daniel and Frank both watched him approach, analyzing what kind of worker he would be from his demeanor. His face was soft yet focused looking as he took short, awkward steps towards them. He looked as if his body was completely new to him and was still figuring out how to work it right. A look between them expressed their collective concern. As he drew nearer they both noticed the man’s powerful eyes that seemed to stare right past them. Daniel hesitated a moment, then stuck his hand out towards the stranger.

"Name’s Daniel Avery and this here’s my side kick and brother Frank,” Daniel introduced, shaking hands and nodding his head towards Frank who was still looking at the man’s eyes. “Pretty much all we do is take all this rumble here, and wheel it over there out of the way. It’s nothing hard and it’s good honest work for a man at 15 cents an hour. So what’s your name, fella?”

“John,” the man answered simply, in a quiet reserved tone.

“Well it’s nice to have you on, John. Now how about you help me and Frank toss some of these stones into the wheelbarrow and break our backs for the sake of progress?”

The three men went back to the pile, loading up rocks, and wheeling them over to another pile further off site and dumping them. Back and forth for hours as the sun rose higher into the sky, escaping the grasp of the rigid steel fingers of the Fuller Building. As the sun moved overhead the heat intensified and pushed heavily upon the construction workers, causing sweat to drip from their brows and their movement to become sluggish. The heat added more weight to each rock that needed to be lifted, and made the wheelbarrows harder to push. The wood of the handlebars grew white hot in the light making each back and forth trip a rite of passage for the workers.

Once while Frank was at the pile on the other side of the site, Daniel leaned against the cool dark side of a steel pillar that was near where he and John were working. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe down his face then once again stared up into the blue sky.

“So what do you think of all this, John?”

John kept his eyes down, focusing on piling more stones into his cart, giving no indication that he had heard Daniel.

“People sees this building going up and think it’s a regular humdinger, people like Frank who are too close minded to see it for what it is. 'A lollapalooza, a crowning achievement of modern society.' they say, but I don’t see that at all.” Daniel looked back over to John to look for a response, but received nothing.

Daniel continued, speaking to the sky. “No, I don’t see at all what they see. This skyscraper is exactly that, it’s grating against the world. Once we finish this building it will tear a hole in the sky, like a knife pressed against soft flesh, and all Hell is gonna pour out. All this industrializing isn’t good for man’s soul. False prophet tycoons with their material goods are corrupting society. Rockefeller’s oil and Judah’s railroad, new avenues for slave-morality. The loss of human dignity as we all come to America and are sent into the industrial shops is horrifying. Men falling into meat grinders, children losing fingers to harsh chemicals, it’s unnatural. Godless cement spreading out of the cities like blood from a dead deer. But no one gives a shit; everyone’s letting their eyes adjust to the darkness of the machine as they move out of God's light. Everyone’s become worse than the most brutal tribes of the wild, more ruthless than jungle law. Everyone is biting and scratching to get one more penny ahead in life at the expense of every paddy and ginzo that stands in their way, the will to power. Manifest Destiny and the American Dream have become man’s dying words, the words that killed God.”

Daniel heard that John had stopped piling rocks and turned looked back to him for his reaction. To Daniel’s surprise John was standing erect, staring directly at him with his powerful, ethereal eyes. Daniel opened his mouth to continue but lost the air in his lungs. He stammered, slack jawed, then fell silent. They stared at each other for a few moments before Frank returned and broke the intense silence.

“Hey Daniel, quit chewin’ the fat and let’s hotfoot up to Hanley’s and get a pint before headin' home.”

Frank set his barrel on the ground and walked away, leaving John and Daniel to continue staring silently at one another. After a moment, John slowly nodded and turned away, walking into the distance. Daniel fell to his knees, his eyes still unblinking as small tears begin to drip down onto his cheek.

This I Believe Final

“The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth”
-Chinese Proverb

“It’s beautiful, all of it, isn’t it?”

The words drifted from my Grandpa through the thick, steamy July air and settled down all around us. He had a far off look in his eye that someone gets whenever they turn away from the outside world and back in onto their own thoughts, as if being told a secret.

Our little boat was meandering around the anchor we had sent down into the cold Ranier depths as we waited for the fasting fish to break their spiritual resolutions. We had both taken our shirts and socks off to try and cope with the heat, hoping the sweat on our skin would pick up the slightest hint of the absent breeze. The air was stagnant and had a sticky but fresh smell from the looming pines of a nearby island. The sun was high overhead, pulsating heat through the vacant blue sky. The rocking of the boat had lulled me into a balmy haze when my Grandpa's words sleepily reached my ears.

He saw being in nature as more than just pastime recreation, something there to be used for our own means of entertainment. To him it was an art and a connection to something deeper. All around my grandparent’s house, located on the northern rim of Minnesota, there were vast and expansive woodlands and fields to wander through. He would teach me about all the wildlife and fauna that we passed. I was stunned when he explained how everything was in its right place, how everything relied on everything else to survive, and how each blade of grass, half-buried stone, and piece of bark was a miracle all its own. He also said that people had their own place along these things. I asked him where that was and he said that he was still trying to find out.

When his words reached me on the boat, I took them in as part of the world that was all around us, the world that my Grandpa had taught me to love. It blended in with the soft lapping of waves against the hull, the hushed rustle of branches caught in the wind, and the distant whir of a boat engine heading out into the glassy waters. It was just one watery breath among the cataract that is the whispered secret of nature. When I glanced to see if he had anything more to say, he looked back at me with an simple smile and asked, “Well, my boy, isn't time that we get going?”

My Grandpa believed that we all had a place in this world and that all we had to do was listen carefully to find out where it was. It is his belief that now lives on in me.

Matrix 2 [V1]

“Listen, Frank, I appreciate what you’re sayin’ but the Giants don’t stand a lick of a chance against the Superbas this year. I can feel it already, back to back to back pennants,” Daniel said, tossing some dusty rocks into a wheelbarrow. He was a younger man in his early 20s and gave off an energetic aura. He was smiling wide as he often did, his bright blue eyes alive with excitement and youth.

“Daniel, you’re a regular bonehead, you know that? The Giants have the pennant in the bag with Davis at short. A solid defensive shortstop is all a ball club needs,” Frank replied as he wiped his calloused hands on his crusty overalls.

“Ah, my dear older brother, though I will agree that a hanging defense is a necessity, what respectable ball club doesn’t have a decent pitcher?” Daniel shot back, holding an index finger up in the air then pointing it accusingly at Frank’s chest to emphasize his point.

“Mathewson is a killer pitcher, you goop. His fadeaway is gonna have your precious Keelerhit and the rest of Brooklyn fanning all season. He’s twice the pitcher than that double crossing Rusie,” Frank responded, slapping Daniel’s hand away from his chest.

“Pardon me, but that is a load of bunk. Mathewson isn’t worth a jitney. At least with Rusie the Giants presented a challenge. No, Mathewson is no Rusie, and he is certainly no McGinnity. Now there is a pitcher worth talking about. Truly the Lord in Heaven has touched that boy’s arm. A true Superba. A true Dodger.” Daniel said, making a sign of the cross over himself and closing his eyes as if in deep prayer.

Frank shoved him in the shoulders, “Dammit, Daniel, there ain’t no way the Holy Spirit would be blessing your Superbas, you louse!”

Daniel stumbled backwards as he was much smaller than Frank, and tripped over a toolbox, landing hard on his back. He glared up at Frank, “Lay off, no need to go getting so snarky about it, you schumck.” Daniel held out his hand for Frank to help him back up, “All I’m saying is that 1901 will be another winning year for the Brooklyn Superbas. That’s all there is, there ain’t no more.”

As Daniel was helped up he looked up into the air, squinting from the painful brilliance of the summer sky. He ran his eyes over the steel rods that were the framework of the building that he and Frank were on construction for. They looked like bony fingers reaching up from the earth, trying to grab the sun. “I can’t believe anyone thinks ol’ Burnham’s Folly will stay up, it’s a God damned triangle for crying out loud. Nothing that high will ever stay up. God won’t stand for people moving into His terrain. He’s bound to knock it down with a mighty wind.”

“Yeah,” Frank said slowly, studying Daniel. He had never understood Daniel’s outlook on religion. He wasn’t anything like the rest of their Catholic family. He didn’t just go to church on Sunday to feel guilty and say a Hail Mary. Their mother would always yell at Daniel for ranting about the dire state of man and for staring off into the distance making vague, profound comments about God and his will. She said that it was blasphemous for him to be talking that way, and that he should stick to what the Bible teaches him if he ever wants to get into Heaven. Frank knew that his passionately critical speeches were only for the attention, but he wished that he would cut it out and get his head on his shoulders right.

Frank turned back to loading the rubble into the wheelbarrow when he saw an unfamiliar figure walking towards them. “Aw shit, here comes the new guy, Daniel. Probably some just off the boat mick whose gonna slow us down like Hell.”

The man walked up to them in his yet unstained work boots, overalls, and undershirt. His appearance was plain in almost every way other than a bright red cross with golden vines growing around it that was pinned to his overalls over his heart. His face was soft yet focused looking as he took short, confident steps towards Daniel and Frank. They both watched him approach; analyzing what kind of worker he would be from his demeanor. As he drew nearer they both noticed the man’s powerful eyes that seemed to look through them. Daniel hesitated a moment, then stuck his hand out towards the stranger.

"Name’s Daniel Avery and this here’s my side kick and brother Frank Avery,” Daniel introduced, shaking hands and nodding his head towards Frank who was still looking at the man’s eyes. “Pretty much all we do is take all this rumble here, and wheel it over there out of the way. It’s nothing hard and it’s good honest work for a man at 15 cents an hour. So what’s your name, fella?”

“John,” the man answered simply, in a quiet reserved tone.

“Well it’s nice to have you on, John. Now how about you help me and Frank toss some of these stones into the wheelbarrow and bring them over the other side of the site?”

The three men went back to the pile, loading up rocks, and wheeling them over to another pile further off site and dumping them. They did this as the sun rose higher into the sky, escaping the grasp of the rigid steel fingers of the Fuller Building. As the sun moved overhead the heat intensified and pushed heavily upon the construction workers, causing sweat to drip heavily from their brows and their movement to become more sluggish. The heat of the sun added a more weight to each rock that needed to be lifted, and made the wheelbarrows harder to push. The wood of the handlebars grew white hot in the light making each back and forth trip a rite of passage for the workers.

Once while Frank was at the pile on the other side of the site, Daniel leaned against the cool dark side of a steel pillar that was near where he and John were working. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe down his face then once again stared up into the blue sky.

“So what do you think of all this, John?”

John kept his eyes down, focusing on piling more stones into his cart, giving no indication that he had heard Daniel.

“Some people see this building going up and think it’s a regular humdinger, a lollapalooza, an achievement of modern society. I don’t see that at all.” Daniel looked back over to John to look for a response, but received nothing.

Daniel continued, speaking to the sky. “No, I don’t see at all what they see. This skyscraper is exactly that, it’s grating against God’s creation. Once we finish this building it will tear a hole in the sky, like a knife pressed against soft flesh, and all Hell is gonna pour out. All this industrializing isn’t good for man’s soul. False prophet tycoons with their material goods are corrupting society. Rockefeller’s oil and Judah’s railroad. The loss of human dignity as we all come to America and are sent into the industrial shops is horrifying. Men falling into meat grinders, children losing fingers to harsh chemicals, it’s unnatural. Godless cement spreading out of the cities like blood from a dead deer. But no one cares; everyone’s letting their eyes adjust to the darkness of mechanical precision as they move out of God’s light. Everyone’s become worse than the most brutal tribes of the wild, more ruthless than jungle law. Everyone is biting and scratching to get one more penny ahead in life at the expense of every paddy and ginzo that stands in their way. Manifest Destiny and the American Dream have become man’s dying words.”

Daniel heard that John had stopped piling rocks and turned looked back to him for his reaction. To Daniel’s surprise John was standing erect, staring directly at him with his powerful, watery eyes. Daniel opened his mouth to continue but lost the air in his lungs. He stammered slack jawed before falling silent. The stared at each other for a few moments before Frank returned and broke the silence.

“Hey Daniel, quit chewin’ the fat and let’s hotfoot up to Hanley’s and see if there’re any knockouts while we get a pint.”

Frank set his barrel on the ground and walked away, leaving John and Daniel to continue silently staring at one another. After a moment, John walked away in the opposite direction that Frank had gone. Daniel fell to his knees, his eyes still unblinking as small tears begin to drip down onto his cheek. He slowly rose back up, headed off to follow Frank to the pub.

Daniel walked into Hanley’s a few minutes after Frank, seemingly in a haze. He slowly walked across the smoky bar to where his brother was sitting, weaving in and out of the dense gathering of patrons that frequented the place, and sat on a stool next to him.

“Hey two for the Avery brother’s alright, Sam? It’s been a long day up at the site, hasn’t it brother?” Frank shouted across the counter to the bartender, wrapping his arm around Daniel’s shoulder and shaking him. As he laughed heartily he looked at his brother and noticed him staring vacantly at the wall of liquor with watery eyes. “What’s gotten into you, Daniel?”

Daniel was slow to respond, “I was talking to John, he…”

“Oh don’t pay any mind to that two bit schmuck,” Frank interrupted, “that nut gave me the willies with those creepy eyes of his. Here have a swig of this, it’ll take your mind off of whatever he said to you, brother. Gettin’ loaded is always good for clearing a man’s thoughts,” Frank said as he handed Daniel a tall glass of ale that they both downed immediately.

After several more drinks Frank was becoming more and more gregarious while Daniel seemed to be slipping further into a comatose state. “Oh c’mon Daniel, you’re really starting to get on my nerves acting like a pantywaist like that. What’s eating you?”

Daniel looked up at his brother without really looking at him. “Frank, John was God. I’m absolutely sure of it.”

“Oh cut the crap, Daniel. What’s put that into your head?”

“The way he looked at me today, he had eyes like God, Frank… like God.”

“I think you’ve had a little too much of the hooch tonight, brother. None more for this one Sam, he’s already tanked up!” Frank yelled to the bartender.

Daniel quickly rose up and grabbed Frank by the top of his overalls, slamming him into a nearby wall. “I’m serious Frank, that guy was God come to earth. He looked into my soul, he judged me, Frank. He condemned me for what I said to him.”

“You’re drunk Daniel,” Frank harshly said back to Daniel, pushing him away back into his stool, “Why don’t you go home and sleep it off alright? We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

Frank then stormed out of the bar, leaving Daniel alone to have everyone’s eyes fall upon him for a moment, before going back to their own drinks.

The next day John didn’t show up at the construction site to transfer the dusty rocks from one pile to the other. He didn’t show up for the rest of the week, or the week after that, and no one else around the site had seen him or heard anything about him when Frank began to ask around. Daniel’s mental state grew worse and worse, no longer willing to talk about baseball, or Shackleton’s expedition, or even about his views on the construction of other skyscrapers around New York. Soon he stopped talking all together, except for occasionally mumbling “His eyes…” quietly to himself. Eventually Frank put it upon himself to track down John to put an end to his brother’s misery. He went to his manager to find out what he could about John.

“Hey, Horace, I need to talk to you.”

“What? Is this about your nutty brother, Frank? You better get him in shape, he’s riding on thin ice as it is right now. I don’t need him actin’ like a lush around here all day.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to help him out here. Do you have any information about that guy John who worked here a few weeks ago?”

“John? C’mon Frank, there’s a thousand John’s that come in and out of here.”

“This one was only here one day, and he had a bright red cross on his chest.”

Horace thought for a moment, looking up and scratching under his chin, before saying, “Yeah, I remember him. That guy with the crazy eyes.”

“Yes, him, can you tell me anything about him? Where he lives?”

“Sure, if it means getting Daniel out of such raggedy condition. Just don’t let the brass find out I was givin’ out this info or they’d can me,” Horace said, grabbing a file out of a cabinet and opening it up. “He lives at… that little apartment building down on Rivington in the Lower East Side.”

“Thanks, Horace.”

Frank took a streetcar down into the overpopulated Lower East Side, eventually finding the lone small apartment on Rivington. As he approached he noticed how it was the most rundown building on the street, as if no one had lived there for many years, and if they had they didn’t care about up keeping. When he stepped inside he asked for the tenant at the front counter. An old man of about 60 approached Frank.

“Hello, I’m looking for someone who lives here by the name of John?” Frank implored.

“John? Why would you be looking for him?” the man responded, eyeing Frank suspiciously.

Frank decided it would be easier to lie than to explain his brother’s problem to the old man. “He skunked my friend out of 5 dollars the other day, I’m trying to find him and do him in.”

The man continued to look over Frank, not seeming to buy his story. “Well he ain’t here. He ain’t been here for a few weeks in fact. Police showed up and took him up to Utica. He’s probably sleepin’ like a baby now in one of them cribs.”

“Utica? The lunatic asylum?” Frank asked in disbelief.

“Yep, that would be the one. I was told the boy was retarded, that the police caught him starting fights in some bars, yellin’ all to hell to the other patients about this and that. Course I coulda told the police that boy was slow without any sort of tests. Never sayin’ a word whenever you talked to him, just starin’ back at you with those big cow eyes. Boy was just not quite right in the head.”

Frank never did tell Daniel what he found out, but instead watched him slip further into a depression, all of his youthful energy sapped from him. He continued to insist that John was God and that he had judged him. Daniel said that John had shown him that his beliefs were misguided, and that he had it all wrong. That he was missing the big picture. He said that he had lost all direction in his life and needed to talk to John again to be shown the way. Later when Daniel began showing suicidal tendencies Frank to committed him to the Utica Insane Asylum. When Daniel asked where he was being taken, Frank told him, “You’re going to talk to God, Daniel.”

This I Believe [V4]

“The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth”
-Chinese Proverb

“It’s beautiful, all of it, isn’t it?”

The words drifted from my Grandpa through the thick, steamy July air and settled down all around us. He had a far off look in his eye that someone gets whenever their eyes turn away from the outside world and back in onto their own thoughts, as if being told a secret.

We were straying aimlessly around the anchor on our little boat in the middle of the immense Ranier, waiting for the fasting fish to break their spiritual resolutions. We had both taken our shirts and socks off to try and cope with the heat, hoping the sweat on our skin would pick up the slightest hint of the absent breeze. The air was stagnant and had a sticky but fresh smell from the looming pines of a nearby island. The sun was high overhead, pulsating heat through the vacant blue sky. The rocking of the boat had lulled me into a balmy haze when my Grandpa's words sleepily reached my ears.

He saw being in nature as more than just pastime recreation, something there to be used for our own means of entertainment. To him it was an art and a connection to something deeper. All around my grandparent’s house, located on the northern rim of Minnesota, there are vast and expansive woodlands and fields to wander through. He would teach me about all the wildlife and fauna that we passed. I was stunned when he explained how everything was in its right place, how everything relied on everything else to survive, and how each blade of grass, half-buried stone, and piece of bark was a miracle all its own. He also said that people had their own place along these things. I asked him where that was and he said that he was still trying to find out.

When his words reached me on the boat, I took them in as part of the world that was all around us, the world that my Grandpa had come to love. It blended in with the soft lapping of waves against the hull, the hushed rustle of branches caught in the wind, and the distant whir of a boat engine heading out into the glassy waters. It was just one watery breath among the cataract that is the whispered secret of nature. When I glanced to see if he had anything more to say, he looked back at me with an simple smile and asked, “Well, my boy, isn't time that we get going?”

My Grandpa believed that we all had a place in this world and that all we had to do was listen carefully to find out where it was. It is his belief that now lives on in me.

This I Believe [V3]

“The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth”
-Chinese Proverb

“It’s beautiful, all of it, isn’t it?”

The words drifted from my Grandpa through the thick, steamy July air and settled down all around us. He had a far off look in his eye that someone gets whenever their eyes turn away from the outside world and back in onto their own thoughts, as if being told a secret.

We were aimlessly drifting around the anchor on our little boat in the middle of the immense Ranier, not overly concerned about the lack of biting fish. We had both taken our shirts and socks off to try and cope with the heat, hoping the sweat on our skin would pick up the slightest hint of an absent breeze. The air was stagnant but had a strong pleasant smell from the looming pines of a nearby island. The torrid sun was high overhead, pulsating heat through the vacant blue sky. The gentle rocking of the boat had lulled me into a warm haze until my Grandfather's words sleepily met my ears.

My Grandpa saw being in nature as more than just pastime recreation, something there to be used for our own means of entertainment. To him it was an art and a connection to something deeper. All around my grandparent’s house, located on the northern rim of Minnesota, there are vast and expansive woodlands and fields to wander through. He would teach me about all the wildlife and fauna that we passed. I was stunned when he explained how everything was in its right place, how everything relied on everything else to survive, and how each blade of grass, half-buried stone, and piece of bark was a miracle all its own. He also said that people had their own place along these things. I asked him where that was and he said that he was still trying to find out.

When his words reached me on the boat, I took them in as part of the world that was all around us, the world that my Grandpa had come to love. It blended in with the soft lapping of waves against the hull, the hushed rustle of branches caught in the wind, and the distant whir of a boat engine heading out into the glassy waters. It was just one watery breath among the cataract that is the whispered secret of nature. When I glanced to see if he had anything more to say, he looked back at me with an simple smile and asked, “Well, my boy, isn't time that we get going?”

My Grandpa believed that we all had a place in this world and that all we had to do was listen carefully to find out where it was. It is his belief that now lives on in me.

This I Believe [V2]

“The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth”
-Chinese Proverb

“It’s beautiful, all of it, isn’t it?”

The words drifted from my Grandpa through the thick, steamy July air and settled down all around us. He had that far off look in his eye that someone gets whenever their eyes turn away from the outside world and back in onto their own thoughts, as if being told a secret. We were aimlessly drifting around the anchor on our little boat in the middle of the immense Ranier, hoping to catch the night’s dinner. The air was stale but had a strong pleasant smell from the looming pines of a nearby island. The sun was high overhead, pounding down heat through the vacant blue sky, an occasional gull or rare Eagle being the only inhabitants. We had both taken our shirts and socks off to try and cope with the heat, and began sipping on the cold Sprites that my Grandma had packed for us. The cans were wet from condensation and slid through our already sweaty palms forcing us to use the rubbery VFW cupholders that were in the glove compartment.

My Grandpa saw being in nature as more than just pastime recreation, something there to be used for our own means of entertainment. To him it was an art and a connection to something deeper. All around my grandparent’s house, located on the northern rim of Minnesota, there are vast and expansive woodlands and fields to wander through, where he would teach me about all the wildlife and fauna that we passed, its purpose with everything else around it. I was stunned when he explained how everything was in its right place, how everything relied on everything else to survive, and how each blade of grass, half-buried stone, and piece of bark was a miracle all its own. My Grandpa also said that people had their own place next to these things. I asked him where that was and he said that he was still trying to find out.

When his words reached me back on the boat, I simply took them in as part of the world that was all around me, the world that my Grandpa had come to love. It blended in with the soft lapping of waves against the hull, the hushed rustle of branches caught in the wind, and the distant whir of a boat engine heading out into the glassy waters. When I looked to see if he had anything more to say, he looked back at me with a childlike smile and asked, “Well, how about those sandwiches Grandma packed?”

I believe he knew humanity’s place on the earth as just another gear in the larger clockwork of existence. It is his belief that now lives on in me.

This I Believe [V1]

“The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth”
-Chinese Proverb

When I was a boy our family would go up to my grandparent’s house in the distant Northern Minnesota in the town of International Falls several times each summer. This was home to my Grandpa Fred and Grandma Marcella, and it would be the place where I would do most of my growing, both at the time and later on while looking back on it and reflecting.

A trip to my grandparent’s house meant many things to me as a boy, including bountiful feasts of my Grandmother’s home cooking, playing pool and pinball in the basement, and playing Cribbage at the dining room table. It also meant picking fresh vegetables out of the miniature garden that my Grandmother dutifully tended, or the way she would insist on going on mid-day walks to chat with the neighbors about how much I’ve grown since the last visit. But what has become most important to me over the years is that it also meant an opportunity for me to spend time with my Grandfather in nature.

All around my grandparent’s house there was vast and expansive woodlands and fields to wander through as a child where I would learn from my Grandfather which plants were and were not poisonous, how to know if a deer had gone through the path and if any fawns were with them, and where the large boulder creatively nicknamed by me as “Big Rock” was, and how to find my way there and back. We would also go out onto the waters of Lake Ranier and the Rainy River. He would teach me the natural landmarks, where the Walleye liked to hide, and how to properly take a nap on the boat without having your rod go over the edge when a fish took the bait.

It was during one of these fishing excursions in the middle of the summer that my Grandfather would hint at his philosophy towards nature. On a particularly blistering July day it was only the two of us out on our small boat in the middle of the motionlessly flat lake, waiting for the fasting fish to break their spiritual resolution. We had both taken our shirts and socks off to try and cope with the heat, and sipped on the cold Sprites that my Grandmother had packed for us. During a quiet spell my Grandfather got a far off look in his eye and simply said, “It’s beautiful, all of it, isn’t it, Cooper?”

The profound meaning of this statement was certainly loss on me at the time, but in retrospect it is something that has truly lasted with me. My Grandfather saw being in nature as more than just pastime recreation, something there to be used for our own means of entertainment, to him it was an art and a connection to something deeper. I believe he knew humanity’s place on the earth and it is his beliefs that now live on in me.

Desires from Modern Suburbia [Matrix Final?]

I earnestly desire to be affected spiritually
to have God whisper gentle words to me while I sleep
and fill my lungs with zealous fever

Or to find a sense of inner balance in the I Ching
and to know that every speck of dust, blade of grass, and human being
has its place

Or to struggle to grasp the infinity that is a day and night of Brahma
and be humbled by the immensity of the gods
waiting for the violent dance of Vishnu and Shiva to end

I want to find my inspiration like the old Romantics did
discovering divinity in the petals of a white oleander
and purpose in the sweeping surges of mountain rock
or to see a reflection of myself
in the mighty roots of an ancient redwood digging deep into earth

I long to be galvanized by something larger than my existence
to find a beautiful truth in the ugliest of places
in a vast and terrible war or on a sun-drenched beach in Algeria
or at a dirty carousel in an early morning downpour

I need my own vision quest
my own Anne Frank
my own Mt. Eerie
my own Vietnam
my own Plague
my own Walden Pond

but all I have is this life of
suburban comfort
and television warmth
with the droning lullaby of fluorescent lights

Desires from Modern Suburbia [Matrix v3]

I earnestly desire to be affected spiritually
to have God whisper gentle words to me while I sleep
and fill my lungs with zealous fever

Or to find a sense of inner balance in the I Ching
and to know that every speck of dust, blade of grass, and human being
has its place

Or struggle to grasp the infinity that is a day and night of Brahma
and be humbled by the immensity of the gods
as we wait for the violent dance of Vishnu and Shiva to end

I want to find my inspiration like the old Romantics did
finding divinity in the petals of a white oleander
and purpose in the sweeping surges of mountain rock
or to see a reflection of myself
in the mighty roots of an ancient redwood digging deep into earth

I long to be galvanized by something larger than my existence
to find a beautiful truth in the ugliest of places
in a vast and terrible war or on a sun drenched beach in Algeria
or at a dirty carousel in an early morning downpour

I need my own vision quest
my own Anne Frank
my own Mt. Eerie
my own Vietnam
my own Plague
my own Walden Pond

but all I have is this life of
suburban comfort
and television warmth
surrounded by godless cement

Desires from Modern Suburbia [Matrix V2]

I earnestly desire to be affected spiritually
for God to whisper moving words to me while I sleep
and fill my lungs with zealous fever

Or to find a sense of inner balance in the I Ching
and to know that every speck of dust, blade of grass, and human being
has its place

Or struggle to grasp the infinity that is a day and night of Brahma
and be humbled by the immensity of the gods
as we wait for the dance of Vishnu and Shiva to end

I want to find my inspiration like the old Romantics did
finding divinity in the petals of a white oleander
and purpose in the sweeping surges of mountain rock
or a reflection of myself
in the mighty roots of an ancient redwood digging deep into earth

I want to be moved by something larger than my existence
to find a beautiful truth in the ugliest of places
in a great and terrible war or on a sun drenched beach in Algeria
or at a carousel in an early morning downpour

I need my own vision quest
my own Anne Frank
my own Mt. Eerie
my own Vietnam
my own Plague
my own Walden Pond

but all I have is this life of
suburban comfort
and television warmth
surrounded by godless cement