strength of a promise

Expect of me what I do of you. I will not fall short.

unkept history

I need to get these words out of my head. I feel with them is the root of human hope and faith that humanity is equipped with everything it needs to move beyond our misplaced energy towards things and identities. The human spirit can be broken and damn the people who break it. We must uplift and amplify the good in the human spirit.

I sat atop this hill for years now. The branches and bristles biting at my ankles as if they might suffocate me by starting low.

Every day goes by and I imagine what the next will bring. I have seen communities torn apart by sheer incompetence and stubbornness. The leadership here is hollow. Dig. Dig. Dig. And all is hollow.

The histories of whys are unkept - why the gibbous? why the bruised? why the people on leashes? why the proud and the humble? Damn us all if we cannot learn to understand and create room in our memories for the answers.

- - - - - - -

The sisters in the padded room whisper of a cabinet in the middle of the forest where history is stored. A cabinet sits with millions of drawers dusty with age. The birds with red ink on their chest keep these drawers full, they say.

But no one cares of their contents, one passerby said. The sisters are crazy to believe people care for the contents of the cabinets.

- - - - - - -

Damn me if these words don't make it onto pages with lasting ink to share their message.



- - - -
this is fodder for the beginnings of the bird boy book. thoughts are welcome.

reality afterwards.

you, you're real -- ?

and I lived on a mountain.
with an opera singer who made a flaming volcano cake.
a diamond way buddhist. a slovenian architect.
a giver of dating advice, a gardener, and a MIT graduate.
and mice. yes, the mice.

we celebrated our farewells with feathers and face paint.
danced and paraded on the trampoline.
and the night rang with laughter.

- - - -

now I'm back where I started a year ago.
I tell the stories of we, us, and me.
stories of Peter Pan come true.
travels to foreign lands.
and a simplicity unknown here.

and some people ask, was this true?
is it possible you knew a wise man, a rock star,
an opera singer and a neuroscientist?

I start to wonder if maybe it wasn't.
true.
maybe it couldn't be.

but I remember.
it was.
true.
(it is.)

it can be.
true.

and perhaps will be so again.

tongues

there is a language written in each of our souls.
we try conversing in it.
with no luck. most are not fluent in the same tongue.

and so, we put our language aside; letting it gather dust.
instead, we find a common tongue --
less perfect in pitch but efficient in means.

and someday, we find someone who can speak the language of our soul with a fluency unmatched by any other.

skipping and singing.

"I'm glad we let you go free," says he.

no matter what.

+ > -

michael and joe.

In a Barnes & Noble bathroom in NYC, a mom waited outside the stalls with a stroller in tow. A voice of a six-year-old girl sounds from inside the stall:

"Michael, are you ready? Michael, come on!"

"Joe, Michael messed up. Help him fix it."

"Mommmm. Michael is busy."

The mom explains, she has named her hands Michael and Joe.