Life on rails

To spend your life moving inexorably in a given direction and, to come there by pains slow and steady, is no trivial thing. Our anxieties define themselves silently along these paths and give birth to paralyzing fears when the destination is upon us. The choice of a life on rails is not “what will I do?” but rather, “what will I do when I get there?”

I unmask myself in the face of fear
through the simple act of removing my
My vision gives shape to the world but
It also animates my anxieties, rendering
Them with a permanence and livelihood
That’s ugly to me.
It’s not a shameful act, but it has a perverse
Incongruity –
Freedom through a degrading sense.
Breadth at the expense of focus.

If ever there were a theme of my life, 
This is it.


Single file, like in the native's way
to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace.

The leftover and forward
once again make sign to a favorite son.

They pause and worship a clay idol,
as much contrite as devoted.

Forgive me friend their eyes say,
"I was not there".

Or, forget me friend,
"There was more than I could handle".

The idol responds to the
deep wishes of their heart,

projecting back upon the somber
all that they desire.

They will carry now a piece,
each a piece of the pain

and nurture a wound in proportion
to what their projection's demand.


When once I approach a bridge
I mount my fear by extending my hand,
as I did with my father years ago.
We approached a grated expanse

and I implored he catch me should I fall.
Safely then on the other side,
he having held me the entire way,
I knew I was forever indebted.

I still don't like bridges
and I don't like admitting
that something scares me,
but I hate that debt most of all.

Resignation to a certain fact

It's intrepidity,
is resignation to a certain fact.
But it's haunting, too.

A countenance negated,
when for once a blank stare lives
as the mind in that moment,
with all blood let
and costly service rendered.

There is no roadmap for spells
concluding enduring sagas,
and the intrepid know that.

I'll admire from afar
and wonder on the strength of
those survivors as they quarter
amid the spent minefield.

They might say there is
no strength in tattered ends,
	all life is a process
	of will and action.

They might say that standing still
in the face of the unmitigated
is an admission of human frailty.

Respectively, I say:
	Let me admire.
	Let me reflect.

Stillness is strength

especially in the hour of the unmitigated.