Remember the shepherd?
He walked before the flock
protected them from prey
not to mention their own futility
He fed them the richest sustenance and let them sleep in prime estates
He told stories when they were afraid
and sang with them when they were fearless
He trusted them to do good work
and they believed he would direct them without failure
But when it came time for each of them to be tied down and bled
they charged the fence and tore across the pasture
The only blood left was in the shepherd’s veins
and he offered it without indignation
But the knives did not know where and how to cut this flesh
so in their effort they bruised it
The blades tried harder and broke the shepherd’s bones
Over and over they prodded
never noticing that he did not bleat like the typical animal
So they ceased their efforts
herded him to the countryside to succumb to his wounds
and convinced everyone that a lamb was slain
The lamb was not slain but stricken
not slaughtered but sore and marked
not offered as a gift but surrendered for its tenacity
Flight of feet
A smart read
Just a strike
And follow along
For a free lunch and a thoughtful glance
I will build you an empire
If you listen closely to the floorboards
they will tell you of their children
of the long nights of debauchery
of poor manners
They will lament their forefathers
and betray their family name
But when the moon gleams through the bay window
and stretches wall to wall
they will lie voiceless
My skin reddened and body badly parched,
I take the bus to where I hope there is a fountain.
It is somewhere deep below the southern skies,
well past the keeper of the fall.
They say I will know it when I see it,
but my hope is all but lost after the fourth stop.
From then on, it is me and the driver,
one of us always watching the other.
I, hoping he has a map and compass,
and he, hoping I drift off to sleep.
Families of broken
bones dance around cold fires
where they live.
To the sound
of tattered jukebox hits from
days gone by.
When they see
an open grave, it only
means inevitable war.
But if they
can reach out beyond here,
the sun forgives.
- Thinking outside the box while sleeping in it
- Walking between rooms so fast the carpet peeled
- Never noticing the smell
- Lamp light and old speakers
- Opening hatches
- Cleaning the floors without soap
- Visiting the zoo and bringing home the principals
- Exercising privilege
- More coffee than water
- Using profanity for sentimental value
- Strong hearts and stronger personalities
- Never cheating self
Each day, as my calendar fills, it also widens. Today, next week became annual. And tomorrow, this year will span decades. Color-coded and sprawling, I meticulously plot my life in half-hour increments. Each appointment and event perfectly contiguous to another and another and another. I scrutinize my minutes, and analyze the white space. So why am I always late? This widening timeline always out of reach, always one step ahead of its creator. I am forever everywhere in time. But I will never be anywhere on time.