Spilling and Leaking and Gushing

Today I am mourning the loss of my own best intentions, because a part of me wants things to go so badly that our only reasonable response is to revolt against the whole system.

Between times, I weep and weep to think that my husband's bones might end up coated in oil. The lights those before us have lit in hope: Are they all for naught?

We are letting down, pissing on, dragging in shit, The Miracle.

I can just about handle the horrors we inflict on each other; the horrors we inflict beyond our own sphere of legitimate concerns are unconscionable.

Apropos To Whatever

Put a hummingbird on a stick, and you'd have a little machine just right for dusting peacock feathers.

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Every man with a bulldog has strong opinions about hair cuts.

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Surely this sliver of moon is too slight to light all those stars —
And yet somehow it does.

I am both inside and outside of every fence you erect and scaling the next before you can even think of what it might be for.

There's a brow-furrowed, wide-eyed, down-turned kind of smile we can give each other, unnamed by the psychologists who put all emotion inside of isolated heads and too few nameable things between those isolates.

Yes, call it a smile, because it has regard, compassion and appreciation toning its muscles.

What a champion lifter of weights a smile is.

Behind the impetus to use is a rationalization.
Behind a rationalization is an ideal.
Behind all that are wounds, mistrust and loneliness.

Been there. Trying to get over it.

Celebrate others' offerings.
Accept others (or not) as works of art.
Let us all be. Let us all not use each other.