People come and go
like silhouettes
backlit by bright ego
till they fade
fuzzy and featureless
into the background radiation
lost and unrecognizable
ghosts of intent
raging unrealized

I remember the old guy who came once to mow our lawns. He mowed as if the lawn had somehow angered him. He mowed as if it was somehow his retribution on the lawn, moving back and forth in row after angry row.

He pushed the mower like it was a plow and he was trying to remove the lawn altogether. He was hunched over seemingly intent upon destruction instead of order.

It was wearying just to watch (and somehow funny too).

There is beauty underneath
the scars of this graven earth
this broken footstool
smashed beneath the weight
of its own endless re-creations
beautiful shadows that dance
as evidence that light still shines
making slaves of the dark
and giving glowing purpose
to it all

live action memory
is what it’s like
moments of clarity
stitched together
in the clouds

life moves from tungsten
to fluorescent to L.E.D.
from chalk board
to smart board
while
the desire to pay attention
becomes weaker
it is all a dream more and more 

i think that life is intentional
somehow
like a clean room
or a washed car
you know someone was
involved
when you see it
life is the result of…
the result of…
it is a result

life is a trajectory
a bullet fired
sent blazing hot
wild and spinning

toward?

it is sent…this is enough.

shhhhhh…
in the quiet
sometimes
i can hear secrets
on the wind
carried aloft
like sad seeds
destined to sow
smiles and frowns
good and ill will
depending upon
sower and soil