Four years of a feeling.

A chaos without pause.

Each day waking up,

hoping the world would still be there.

And it was.

Four years later

and the feeling returns,

and I realized something today:

I made that feeling for myself

every morning.

A fresh cup of grief.

A warm bowl of panic.

A slice of powdered terror.

Way back when.

Nobody did it for me.

No system.

No authority.

No agenda.

And I decided today,

regardless of what happens next,

I wasn’t making that feeling

anymore.

I have not loved Time enough.

I have neglected her.

A busy husband chasing after glory

While she, ever dutiful,

spreads dust on my bookshelf,

wrinkles my forehead,

brings new babies into the light,

buries old and weary travelers.

She makes my life new again.

Every moment

and still I neglect her marvelous work.

The Sun answers her call every morning.

The Moon dances to her tune at night.

How have I been so blind

to this passionate devotion?

In my sleep, she lays with me.

As I scurry about my daily diligence

there she is, right by my side

with new and astounding surprises!

Her gifts are innumerable.

How could I ever give back

to her in kind?

Forgive me, Time.

I take granted all your best efforts.

It’s MLK day and I’m giving myself completely

to volunteer with college kids and build sandwiches

because we can’t collectively afford housing for the needy.

But at least we can feed our communities as the snow plows in.

I’m surrounded by a solidarity of kindness for kindness sake.

No agenda attached,

and it is as pure a feeling as the human heart can muster

under any circumstance.

Shifting tables outdoors. Sorting clothes erratically for grannies and meemaws

and the interested passerby in need of thick socks to withstand the aching freeze.

So many shoes will be dumped off at a Goodwill or God only knows.

For now, we display this plenty in lieu of potlatch, in hopes of a harmony

that arises when earnest intent meets random chance.

We make the most of every inch of space available,

clearing and cleaning what we can,

riding shotgun towards the next fridge, depositing the millionth sandwich.

The sun pours over us for a brief pause and I soak it in with the luster of a house cat.

I would purr if I only knew how. And my stoic face is only just beginning to learn the posture

of something sincere like a smile. But if my smile couldn’t be seen,

surely it must have been felt.

There are people under this roof who I would build every brick of a house for

if I had the opportunity, the money, the luxury.

A home a luxury

in this land of plenty.

If only we could build homes from sandwiches,

sovereignty out of old sundresses,

we’d have solved the problem on MLK day.

He was dizzy from the high

of too much sugar and fried bread.

A waxy coca cola cup

clutched in his 10 year old palm.

But what was it

that whipped this boy

into a whirling stupor

alone and gyrating

in a parking lot

spectated by the DJ

who could only admire that

this child was moved by

what was it?

Pat Benatar?

Styx?

Madonna?

The boy doesn't remember.

The man doesn't remember either.

And one day he was dancing alone

in an apartment

high off Cannabinioid soda

and letting his sock drawn feet

whip him into such circles

that he nearly threw out his back

but he was alive again

and this time he knew

he wasn't going to forget

the song blaring forth.

I still remember receiving

the first message.

The brick phone

that Nokia built.

I’m certain that phone

still works today.

I’m certain that phone

will remain in working order

long after my bone dust

has returned to Antares.

And I remember thinking

upon message receipt

"Why didn’t you just call me, dude?"

I could see

from that first moment

how our social thread

would degrade.

Decades later

and my conversations

have largely reduced to signals

closer to Morse Code.

Doing_fine__stop

Cool__stop

Work_sucks__stop

Today_sucks__stop

True__stop

The_world_sucks__stop

Yeah__stop

How_are_you__stop

Maybe_one_day__stop

Love_you__stop

Standing in the Nike store,

adrift in Black Friday shoppers,

my sister says I’m not alone,

she’s watched conversations

with friends and family

whither, too.

Underneath her neutral

expression

stares a frustrated woman

wondering what will be left.

We blame children,

we blame marriage,

we blame the job,

but we never give much credit

to the convenience

of being left alone,

sinking into the subscribed comforts

of our privately mediated Idahos.

The great irony

of communication technology:

We will connect you to the world at the cost

of your connection…

Rich conversation

is now a luxury belonging

to stand-up comedians

selling ballsack razors,

conspiracy theorists hugging great aching jugs of vitamins.

Commentators, careerists,

and the collapsed individual

whose slow soul decay

we secretly celebrate.

They will speak for us.

They will have friends for us.

They will have families for us.

They will have lives for us.

What a service they offer,

free of charge.

Simply enter the promotion code at checkout.

And yet, from time to time

I meet someone

filthy stinking rich with words

diving head first

like Scrooge McDuck

into the grand Art Deco bank vault of their diction.

Swimming

in rhythmic breast stroke,

spraying forth speech

like a blue whale surfacing

from a journey in the depths.

And it moves me.

It moves me to speak once more.

It moves me to think once more.

It moves to feel once more.

There are connections

running in circuits

hidden to the IT specialists,

hidden to Verizon

or Time Warner.

They are the sort of connections passed along by sparrows

in the parking garage

or crickets at the roadside,

hopping around the litter.

Connections that will outlast

the next iPhone update.

Connections that will survive the collapse

of communication towers.

And like my old glory

Nokia phone,

will still boot up

long after we have gone,

ready to transmit

the heart’s voice

once more.

Be careful what you say,

for when you speak

you breathe.

And in breath,

all life speaks

through you in return.

Cycle unending,

even death a breath

released into a larger lung:

the greater to carry a spirit,

a thought, a memory.

Each of these,

life’s little metaphor

for the still

unending breath.

And life:

the breath of a lung

without boundary.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Heaven and Hell.

From void to dust,

from dust to clay,

clay to flesh,

flesh to new flesh,

new flesh to star stuff.

Breath unto breath

unto breath.

Now and forever,

amen.

Slick precision,

Ink rolls despite indecision.

Cross-marks, hash-marks,

slashes, dashes,

dead-ends abandoned,

in hopes that Providence

will deliver a satisfying string

of scribbled symbols:

signifying furious sounds,

harmonic mouth noise,

maybe even thoughts!

(If we’re lucky.)

Words flow,

But meaning?

God only knows.

Cosmic processes coalesce:

the gears of time,

the spheres of mass,

the birds, the bees,

the trees, and all things now

and hereafter.

But even this odd process

is given permission

amidst the galactic flurry.

Dark secretions stain the paper.

no consequence, no afterthought

that can be blotted out

except by violent scratching erasure.

A good pen is hard to find.

Harder still, a mad mind

to guide it.