Escaping Vanity

Driving the speed limit; 45 mph. Using fingers, we count how many seconds. The continuous stalks of corn cover the window. Eight, Nine, Ten, no more fingers; switching to toes. Dirt overtakes the gravel. Years shift the sediment. Complacency and fallen timbers; passable only by foot. Living tributes; an organic museum. Nostalgia is the price of admission . A ceiling of leaves blocks out the beautiful sky. Somehow this canopy is superior. A verdure Sistine Chapel. Time becomes a paradox. Serenity mixes with memory. How did it use to be? Does it matter? It exists. Sanctuary; Living Testament; Peace on Earth. A place where rain is wishful thinking. Emotional precipitation. Washed over; enamored; Saturating the spirit. No place for music here. The harmony is perfect. Dreaming of droplets pinballing their way down. The forest bed a perfect mattress below. Each step is like a waltz with nature. Each spin a revolution into the memory of another time. Perfection.

We’d exchange texts with spirit. Though an unorthodox first date, and never one to be predictable, she’s meeting muah at the grocery store. This is an inside job… As she arrives, I open her door. Greeting her with a hug under a blue sky. The afternoon is young. So many decisions to make. I’ve brought a short list to seek out. Making sure there’s a pen and utilizing my server’s book for legible writing. Matching her pace as we stroll. Being quiet to listen to her observations. But I don’t need some of these items, neither does – she – right now. Simply, white lies, so that I can “pretend” they were on my list. Secretly logging her favorites. Studying the object of my affection. Passing by the flowers, she tells me her favorites. We’ve got half a dozen items from my list, only half of tonight’s menu? Both of us still deciding what we’re really hungry for. Hell, I dismiss myself to the restroom between aisles. Not having to go, just doubling back to grab her favorite flower

When is your Spring? Folks in the world cycle crops to their individual climate. Waiting for the ground to thaw. Waiting for enough sunshine. Our relationship season. We wait for our hearts to shake off the ice. Searching the skies for the right forecast. Making sure that the ground won’t freeze too soon again. Making sure when we give things a chance that Mother Nature won’t sever our efforts. Warmth is imperative. The spirit of things being planted must be complimented with irrigation and care. Without these things the ground is unusable. The ability to harvest and share with others is obsolete. For what we seek is more than a project. A beautiful garden, perhaps a collage of projects in a flower bed. But, like relationships, they require space and attention. Elements to help them succeed. Perhaps a prize-winning love affair. Blue ribbons for size and acumen. These are the connections we aspire to have. Efforts to survive. Where would our lives be without chances a

She’s guarded and silent. Standing at attention. Smiling for the fanfare. Working for her son. Replacing what she’s lost. Getting back to zero. Recouping her confidence. Wandering about chances. Stranded looking… Before her is an ocean. She wants to feel those waves. To be overpowered. Engulfed by the motion. Losing control of the flow. Can’t feel the bottom. That’s all she really wants. Not to touch the bottom any longer. Does she have it left inside. To leave the shore. Paddling to great depth. Wading and bobbing. The strength to tread against the forces. Pushing her back to the stranded shore. Chance and risk; new promises. Like the social worker with storied past, on overwatch until further notice. Always to defend? Perhaps, there’s some warrior spirit left. When the wind blows past her ear. Whispering. Talking. The voice of nature. Her sense of adventure calling. Sun’s reflection off the ocean blue. Giving signal. Legs charge forward. Fee

She’s determined to make things happen. Fighting through the struggle.  De – as the negative connotation for rough ground.  Deterring a conversation.  Demonetizing a venture for capital.  Deflecting from a straight answer.  Demeaning characterizations.  Dehumanizing another.  So, what do you deserve?         World’s full of cliché. Hop-a-long slogans that mutate language. “You know what I mean,” doesn’t work in science or math class. Why would anyone think it’s acceptable for English? Deserve is a negative reciprocation of what a person has coming to them.  Far be it from me to detract the rhetoric about what folks have earned.  Maybe they have deceived themselves.  Time denoting the wrongs on their record. Irreversible fortunes, like derivatives ruined our markets. Debauchery to the economy, raping our quality of life.         I’m trying not to be deceptive in any way. After all September is a time of beautiful colors changing. But as the cold comes

Where the community waves back The race to see whom can let the other in the door A place where money has you chasing a man down, Because you’re returning what he dropped (Where) gifts are a matter of fact tradition; afterthoughts. Everyone knows the kitchen; bringing their plates back to wash. No one questions the menu. Plates are full then empty. The wave of conversation rolls like the evening tide. Business? These talks are hearty like a spoken handshake. Facial expressions to your lady, speaking to her on the ride back. Rarely are any photographs taken. Mental treasures captured. The destination of an expedition. Restoring faith and finding peace. (Almost) like a secret society. Not hidden. Yet, never shared. These sacred brothers present in our public ceremonies. Most visitors and neighbors come and go. Some remain. Assimilation is easy with selflessness. Branches adjoining the tree. For the absence of walls, with the spirit of righte

Centuries ago, they brought back the window dressings from Persia. Perhaps the world is now blind to Venice. The history washing away… A place richly noted for people and history. Current events happen to fast to catalogue. The past forgotten in all the upgrades. Sustainability was never an issue a millennium ago. Mankind pressing through expressionism and expanding culture. Wonderful structures and doctrines clearly stating individual discipline. Assimilation is a suggestion in our time. Years past meant risking sacrificing one’s self to dissent. The extra voices of today have been given irrevocable and boundless access. Drowning out the reason and hierarchy which brought peace. Though it would be challenged. Despite the fighting which proceeded the respite. Formerly, cultures sought to protect their ideals and fought to conquer. The bloodshed and collateral damage left ecosystems and populations in balance. An overwhelming number of people have saturated the Earth.

Like a recurring dream. A good one. Where your smiling face and the strength in your stubborn mind are colliding in my conscious. A man can wake up satisfied. Imagine a woman so promising and who touches you so deep in the embers of your soul that you wake up in the darkness of night… Your skin is warm. Even in the chills of winter. You’d swear the sun is what’s crisping your skin while you slept, but it’s her memory. Where is she? Inconceivable moments of another world. Time doesn’t fade things you have yet to dream. Tomorrow’s fresh dream that can’t be touched by misfortune and woes of today. She’s hidden, protected, from the ugly events of this world. Tucked away softly until she surfaces again. Along a seashore or smiling, swaying, in a swing on a wrap-around porch. An old house or a bright morning… She never stops making a sleeping heart race. Yearningly yawning. A door opens. A message. A voice. A shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. Spirits come to life. Hers. Your own

Squealing while struggling to a halt. Hammering a fist on the wheel. She hands a tablet back to the girl in a pink dress, with no shoes. Stomping the brake pedal, the textbooks landslide to the floorboard. Bright eyes glaring back, a newborn on a video chat from the bestie. Morning in the city, life in all directions. One intersection. The night sky falls, the lights begin to blink. Cold and somber, a drunken man sleeps in an idle car, perhaps saving a life. Found by onlookers. Ignition turned off; disaster averted by Samaritans.  Even he can remember when the lights only flashed red. A smaller town, a simpler time. Before the expansion to yellow and green. Sounds travel further in the darkness, sirens wailing. He dreams… Days gone by, the early stages of a work in progress. Blue skies and the open fields around an asphalt path to everywhere. “Wide Load” as the generators make their way to the new power station. Property management signs foreshadow