The One Thing
I would like to think that if I was asked the one thing in my life I am sure of, that I would answer with something profound.
Maybe something immediately agreeable, like love or family being the most important thing in life.
Or maybe I would answer something subversive and facetious. An angsty line of “life is random and has no meaning.” But seriously, on that note, can we all agree that life just sucks sometimes? When something truly, truly, terrible happens, isn’t it kind of insulting to be told it’s for some kind of higher purpose? I’d rather it be random. I prefer a universe that is randomly cruel than one that is intentionally so, but that’s just me.
My answer could also be one of those low-key narcissistic, unnecessarily elaborate explanations of my “core values.” I think I read somewhere that we form those early in life. That it becomes really, really hard to change after that. Like, if you’re a selfish asshole by a certain age, you’re probably going to be an asshole for the rest of your life, except you get a little better at hiding it.
Or I can just cop out and say that I can’t be sure. Because, really, being sure is a special kind of dangerous isn’t it? I’m willing to bet that most suicide bombers were pretty damn sure they were going to Valhalla before they pushed that detonate button.
So if there’s one thing I am sure of, it’s that I’m probably not very sure of anything. It’s a cop out, I know, but for today I’m going with it. Tomorrow, I might change my mind anyway.
The price of being a star
it's to be busy always.
It's both exhausting
With little or no rest,
you would always have to be a full moon
in the endless night of a stage.
I want to be star,
shine brighter than a black stallion,
daze the crowd with perfection.
But the burning sensation
wear due to friction,
dice my onions.
I want the fame flame,
not knowing how the fuel escapes.
A star as to burn
to be bright and beautiful.
It's an invigoratingly addictive elixir.
Yet I want to be star
just like you're.
swaying swans sing so softly,
soothing soft sounds slowly swelling,
seeming suddenly strident.
swans seldom stutter,
songs sweet, stable, so steady,
simply saying smooth sounds,
sending sweet songs slowly soaring.
sinking, surging, swaying,
sonorous songs sweep sooty sands,
smoothing serrated sections,
sending swirling sand segments skyward,
sand swiveling in superior cyclones,
swirling, so spectacularly,
songs switching, soon submerging,
sinking in soothing space,
significantly savage storms
stretching skyward slowly.
shore and sea sway,
shifting societal standards,
sinking suggestive sentiment.
some saturnalien scum scream:
“swan’s singing is supernatural!”
such screams seem
standard sentiment for suffering swans,
seeking some suffering like
sick, substandard scavengers
seeking stiffs to scarf.
such slanderous statements
soliciting self shame.
such slander seems swamping,
senior stigmas sticking still, ceaseless.
still, such substandard slander
shouldn’t seem so standard.
surely, someone should say “shame!
shame on such sour spoken sounds!
shame on sickening scum!
shame on such cynical syllables,
shame on such senile schemes!
such scandalous sentiments should scarcely see spoken!”
swans singing should seem special, sinless,
supreme in sound.
still, some stay silent.
silence seems stinkingly substandard,
slimy sewage straining such struggles.
sound seems sanctioned,
silence supremely saddening.
seeking success shouldn’t seem scandalous.
still, silence and slander stays strong.
such sentiment stains swan’s singing.
supernatural? surely senseless!
stupid semantics of superstitious stupidity.
swans sing sans spectral supplements!
spooky specters swiftly scamper,
scared of such supreme swan sounds.
spooks spooked by splendid splendor.
silly solution to senile stigmas!
swans scorn such spiritual silliness.
singing is simply spontaneous skill,
skill and some strong seasoning.
still, skepticism stays strong.
sans suspicion, swans sing still.
seeking some sadly screened support
for some splendid singing.
singing seems so shortening.
swan songs seem so superior.
swirling, sublime swan songs,
sacrificing sand for sky.
splendid sunsets streaking
smog suffused skies,
seceding to shadowy sapphire,
sundown, song still sustaining,
sun and sunset’s sweet satellite spinning
seldom stop such sweet swans singing.
swans seldomly seem superstitious,
still, songs seem supernatural,
savages slinking in sluggish streams.
spiritual souls singing spirits into survival.
specters sway in sophisticated shapes,
schizophrenic supercomputer of spiraling skulls,
strange sounds of sightly sinful serpents.
since such sounds seem supernatural,
shouldn’t someone say swans singing is superior?
sage swans sing such strength saturated songs,
sending song scales spiraling skyward.
songs, scaling slippery slopes;
straddling stars in space,
stretching to star systems,
swimming in stacks of suns.
sitting in swells of singing swans,
sobbing songs of sugary sadness,
so soon, sorrow shifts to soothing sanctity,
snow, seceded from summery skies.
songs surfacing from swanly speech.
striding stepping stones,
seeing sightly scenery.
songs sliding southwards,
sonnets stirring streams,
sequestered swans singing
striding such senseless stockades.
spawning statuesque serenity in shivering streams,
seldom settling somewhere,
ceaslessly shaping some splendid space,
shaping, switching, shifting:
shifting solid stones.
sweet, saccharine songs,
seeding sensitive saplings,
sprouting splendid stems,
seeking sweet sunlight.
sun shines ceaseless,
stalling for some sought space.
some secret section,
super secluded from such simultaneous spoilage.
simultaneously, swans sing,
seeking some sort of
settlement for such sinister suffering,
seeking some sort of sweet satisfaction,
sounds squeezing secluded souls,
someday shading cities,
shining seas and shaking structures,
seamstresses soon sewing
songs sung somewhere
sad, sweet, suggestive.
songs swans started.
songs swans sung.
songs swans sowed.
still, swans shuttered,
slammed, scattered, sunk.
“songs seem saturated in suggestive sin.”
still, some stole such strong swan songs,
stealing superb scales for selfish services.
swindling such sugar sweet singing.
so swans surrendered,
staring sadly skyward,
such sour savagery
solicits savage storms.
since shelter stolen, survival seems strenuous.
sad swans sunk southward,
snuggling with suffering,
swans sang sirenlike,
spawning sordid superstitions.
shores where swans sat seemed shrouded in strangeness.
swans seldom cease singing,
still, swan’s strength seems strained.
sapped by superstitious stigma.
so such sweet, soft, struggling swans
stopped singing such splendid sounding songs.
such silence slowly suffocated said swans,
swans seemed striding to secede from sickening silence.
such supressed songsseeingly spawned self scorn,
swans strangling selves to supress sudden songs.
suicidal sadness, staining songs,
siring sinister scrutiny.
songs and swans surrender in sync, severing,
splintered segments spinning
some suck satisfaction from straws.
some slice selves senseless.
some surrender, suicidal,
seeking solace in swaying strings,
survival’s strings snipped shamefully short.
some seek serenity in schizophrenic sources.
some still see serenity in such ceaseless suffering.
still, summation of such sad swans
smooch sorrow so severely
that such sickness seems ceaseless,
submerging sweet songs in still spreading sadness.
significant shadowed space,
sinning spreading starkly,
silencing serene swans,
stifling silver sterling stars.
should swans still start songs?
or should silence stretch ceaseless?
song seems salient to such soundless suffering.
such senses seem safe.
still, suspicion, stigma
staying stuck in some spacey souls.
serenity slips, sinking subterranean.
swallowing some spacious cities simply.
swans suffer, species swallow sorrow.
strangling on soundless sickness.
silence seems like sickness.
sagely, someone suggests
some supreme suggestion,
some sure solution:
since swans seemed secondary.
schooling seems significant.
some say swans swim subordinate;
suggesting stereotypical stupidity:
some species seem stunted,
societal straitjackets, strangling sweet singers,
sometimes suspicion stays stuck.
such stigmas seem super strenuous to shake.
still, someone should stand;
seek the spunk to say:
“species sustain soul,
spawn saccharine songs,
sabatoge solitary strays,
soon, subsidence stays sure.”
swimming swans, slithering snakes,
sewing silkworms, slimy salamanders
slippery salmon, strong scorpions,
stalker sharks, special seals
sprightly seahorses, stinky skunks, and slow sloths.
soaring sparrows, spinning spiders, scurrying squirrels and squirting squid,
sacred scarabs, squirming starfish, shrunken shrimp,
shriveled shrew, slimy slugs, shelled snails, silky servals,
stately stags and spirited storks.
each species seems salient and splendid.
even small sardines: significant.
such species seem small,
scarce, sporadic, strange, substandard.
such stigmas are slipshod.
so species still seem salient,
spurning such stale sentimentality.
swans seek survival,
subsistence, not superiority.
such selfishness is senseless.
such species spurn seeming sheeplike,
species seek strength.
strength, scornless spans of survival.
seeking seen: strong, splendid, sweet.
some still searching sundry sands
so someone still stands satisfied.
sailing sun stained seas,
sapphire swells surging to sandy shores,
spawning sudsy cerulean surf.
sequestered shores, subtly shadowed.
sparkling sunbeams shuttered,
sending swans to sibylline shade,
searching stripped shores for sidelined silvery stashes,
sanguinely suppositions of safety and salvation.
swans searching, shepherding scheduled saints.
scavenging sandy shores,
and slothlike, shattering.
swans start slipping.
slowly, souls shrivel, semitransparent.
searching for supreme solidarity,
sidestepping serious storms.
surely, success sits somewhere,
secluded in shadowy shores.
success should be sought speedily.
strife seldom stops simply.
serenity seeking swans still sing,
starting songs supplementary.
suddenly, swan source surfaces,
striding stormy seas,
seeking spawn’s songs.
she searches for strayed sons.
she seeks to spark satisfaction.
swan’s source has seen suffering.
she seeks to soar skyward,
spurring swans to surmount sad situations.
swan source symbolizes success,
seeking strength in scary scrapes.
swan source saw small sons suckling from soft spheres,
seeking sweet solution.
she says, “seek survival!
satiate starved swan sanity!”
she shows swans skills,
students studying stateliness.
swans still sailed skyward,
so she shows swans supplementary sailing:
swimming salty sapphire seas.
such shining seas sequined with shining sunlight,
such sojourning seems sufficiently satisfying.
“spurn stereotypical status!” she says.
she starts shifting said status:
swans see what she sees.
swans surround system’s stop,
so simple, so sophisticated.
simply stunning, sublime,
stimulating, stirring sleeping soldiers,
spurring salient strides,
surpassing senseless slights,
smothering such senseless slander,
sailing sinking ships to shore.
struggling swans swung swirling shouts,
scouring shores, ceasing strife.
such splendid savagery,
so sour shifted sweet,
swan source scored success.
she significantly shifted such sights.
so stigmatized scorn shifted to celebrated.
scratch shabby slants,
substitute sincere sentiments.
surround, subdue senseless slander,
swans sing still,
swearing no cessation,
stubbornly securing ceaseless support.
standing still, strong,
smashed scizzors still slice separated;
suddenly shining swordlike.
sprouting sudden splendid shoots,
swans seem suddenly successful.
still, swans seldomly succeed stopping seiges solo,
so swan’s serendipity strays.
still, swans search.
seeking sweeping songs,
suitability supercedes sameness,
surely, shouldn’t stay synonymized.
such stories solicit sincerity,
supposing stories sit secure,
slashing superficial standards.
swan songs stain sciolistic spirits,
supporting schooling simpletons,
simple strains spawn sophisticated speculation,
sole soprano singing sonorous,
strong swan singers synchronizing.
some struggle to strangle such sounds,
souring such sweet swan style.
still, sighing swans stop scarcely,
songs soaring skyward,
sky sketched silver,
smog, spinning string,
shaping sheepskin shrouds.
suffering seemingly spawns
some super special songs,
sending such supremely splendid signals.
songs start seeming like sheets of spectacular sky
skin of soft support,
suspending swans in stunning stillness.
still, shouldn’t stop.
still, ceaselessly strutting,
seldom setting selves south of success.
swaying, synergized song.
synchronized, spiritual, shatterproof song.
spectacular, significant, substantial song.
so suspend scaredness,
swans shouldn’t stop singing.
still, songs sustain significant significance.
such style, such symmetry,
shouldn’t stay still.
so swan songs seldomly suspend.
sustaining seems salient.
ceasing soon? surely silly!
swans should scarsely stall!
surely, such superior singing stays.
suggesting simple songs,
still, striving for sophisticated sounds.
subsisting in seemingly silent states,
staying sonorous in shining stars.
swans started sweeping sojourns,
searching for some same strategy
as similar successful species.
swan songs steered
such stigmatized species
somewhere super special.
swans seem so special someday starting soon.
such sentiment should stay.
such sentiment should have stuck from start.
still, swans strove to swim skyward, socially,
seeking society’s summit.
such struggle seems so serviceable.
stop settling for supression.
stop silencing spectacular sounds.
celebrate surpassing societal summits
swans should serve as similes
for societal supression.
schooling is super superior,
spawning sensible solutions,
stirring students to seek some
substantial shifts in sectionalist sentiments.
seems sensible that some stuck in similar situations,
such sad species seeking some support,
should study swan’s successes,
striving to simulate shangri-la’s smooth skies.
What Truly is, “To Die For?”
I love this question. Certainly not homemade, straight from the oven banana-nut bread, although it is really, really good.
Braveheart died for “Freedom!” Socrates for truth, Romeo for love. Good reasons all, I suppose, when you read their stories. Certainly men of conviction, if not good sense.
What would I willingly die for? A difficult question, yes... if I am truly honest with myself.
Would I die to save a friend? How about a stranger? Easy to answer “yes” from my comfy couch. More difficult though when in the midst of a shooting and your choice is to “run, hide, or fight.”
Would I give my heart to save my child? Absolutely! But what directions might her life take without my presence, and guidance?
Would I die for my beliefs? What good would it do? They are mine, and mine alone, so would they not cease to exist along with me?
But is it not in deliberating such difficult philosophical questions that we find reason to:
Labor, and even
The harvesting of thoughts seeded by such questions prevents us from venturing through alone. Difficult questions spark diverse answers, which increase the paths for us to choose from.
I hope they keep asking the difficult questions so that we can continue considering them, even though, just like Big Momma’s deep dish peach cobbler, they are really not “to die for.”
Messin’ With Time
Don't ask time to stop.
& the whirling-swirling
"Wheel of Time"
caught me by surprise.
Left me on top of the World.
Where I could barely breathe.
Cold. Bold. Never old.
Frozen in a dream-like state.
Watching my future
at the same rate.
Don't mess with time.
Whether fast or slow.
Don't hit the brakes.
Just let it go.
Enjoy both riddle & ride.
Otherwise, you'll be stuck,
like me — forever.
The flutter of his lashes on my cheek,
the patter of his feet in the upstairs hall,
the way his eyes light up when he catches my eye,
his excitement to give me the humblest of gifts,
his mischievous smile,
his infectious laughter,
even his cries sound for me alone,
Simply, to have him near,
for this I live.