A Falling Sun

It all started with a peel of orange.

Not an orange peel

but

a peel of orange.

Then,...

a soft strip of pink.

Soon

it started to rain

shades of a sunset.

Not long after

my gut screamed at me,

"Look up!"

So, I looked.

The earth nearly shook.

No, it was my conscious mind in for a shake.

Blackness stood before the falling peels of colors

that belonged to the sun.

More like my reaction than my response

was

"Where is God?!"

Peels of hope and vibrance in colors continued to fall.

Drink your water.

Eat your food.

Love love.

Fiction can qualify as education.

French Coffee Over Italian Roll

I often find myself on a battleground.

You just gotta understand.

Time for you may seem scarce...

I've just been my own best friend

as well as my own worst enemy

for so long.

It's just hard to open the door

and invite someone else into the haze of my lore.

I trust

you understand

and

relate.

Sure, let's get away.

Give it all away.

Wishes and dreams,

cries for freedom

pervade sweet silence

only to drown the voices.

Soon I shall wake to France

and remember to draw the curtain.

A Doubt's Dance

Are you really me?

Am I really you?

Tell me,

how can it be otherwise?

Mirror, mirror,

who is staring at me?

Am I really you?

Are you really me?

Destroy the box.

Defy the gravity of our waking illusion.

I know it is very illusory.

One second,

you think

you've done it.

The next,

you're back in the box.

It's like entering a Mario's Warp Zone.

Press B

You enter the shimmery green tunnel.

You are on a new level.

Only it is not Nintendo.

Just life.

Carpe Diem!

Oh you...

what a sad soul.

Why the achy heart?

Water is still transparent.

Food still is luminous with health

as the mind is with triggers of divine creativity.

Why the mirthless misery?

How the glimpse of blackening clouds in the midst of sunshine?

What is the dragging mystery?

Recollections.

Flashbacks.

Spirals.

Haunting lives.

Split seconds of forgotten memories.

Invisible swirl of tattered cloths.

Can you put a clock on it?

Does now require time?

Will time ever materialize?

Passersby.

Strangers.

None other than yourself.

Life.

Laughter.

Tears.

Fleeting vehicles.

Rhythmic pedaling.

Anxious footsteps.

Smile, anyway.

Stick out your tongue.

It's okay.

hindsight over yonder

Deep, deep down...

I'll admit

there is a faltering wish

I hold back from all the shooting stars...

that have befallen before my eyes.

The wish is...

for a long glimpse of perfection.

A very ironic taste now is lodged on a fork.

Quietly vivid,...

a thought floats through that taste.

How is perfection ever captured?

How do you know if something is perfect?

Perfection should hold nothing accountable.

So, now,...

is invisibility a form of perfection somehow?

If anything,

the moment that intertwines

an aging afternoon and a young evening

might just be a step closer to an arm's reach...

towards perfection.

For all the things we know,

the splatter of a penny in a whirlpool

may spell

out

"Perfection might equal the demise of all imperfections."

Zombification

Who knew?

Contentment is like a perfected abyss of gratitude yet contentment that lasts for longer than 3 hours in the same temperature will inevitably wither into scraps of coal. Bits of coal, I say,

because one soon forgets the comfort of the fire in which the coals provided in the beginning

and is ridiculed by the smoke and smothering temperature once the flame becomes mere temperature. Contentment is also a temperate function.

Still, I beg the heavens not to allow my sense of gratitude to dwindle to nil.

But a heinous crime! Yes, nothing but a horrific crime it is to forget the road you have paved up until the moment of possible permanence in such a fleeting emotion as contentment shows its face.

What is it,... is it a deprivation of appreciation for monochromatic bliss? Now this question is going to do nothing but pack a thick-as-heavy-cream syringe of questions. What good is this syringe going to do for anything? Maybe a cup of dark coffee for a drinker who doesn't like it the way he likes his women; black.

Seriously...

I doubt you or I would want to deal with that syringe. So, let's just toss it right here on this shiny, wet pavement. At least it is not oozing blood. It is just heavy cream. When ingested, minor nausea is the worst ailment for a non-allergic consumer.

Anyway, the point is...

Contentment easily makes a person sleepy. Ecstasy is after all not a form of contentment.

Oh, the lessons I learn.

A fine Questionnaire to Self

So, now I need permission to rant?

Permission from myself, even?

What sense is this?

When does one know one's mind is utterly warped?

What good is ranting?

What good is marveling?

Isn't there plenty more good in marveling?

So, bringing a rant on is only emitting a rant?

If clearing a rant is omitting a rant, how does one clear it?

You know, I figure I would get this off my chest.

A rant or not, who would frinklin' notice.

At this point, things feel rather vain...

Ain't jack I can do about it.

As soon as I'm out of the clouds,

I probably will better see how I can mound this nonsense.

Still, hanging I am onto a thread of pure gratitude.

Actually, I probably should just take up baking and cleaning.