I slam something hard onto the table at midday. Smack it says.
up-and-coming we feel its proximity, its texture, its influence. The echoes of the neighborhood tell much of what this means.
Mrs. so and so showed it to us by opening the fridge and crying slowly into the coolness of something removed from the fear of these silly little pieces of business.

Tangents of repetition, entanglements, jokes to deaf ears, watchers from a far, colors on my pallet.
All mashed into the realization that you too are human.
And what to do about this new knowledge of one’s limitations.
As a child I had an idea, but this was played down with the thought of being an alien or a shooting star cutting across the night sky.

These guys coming from beyond east and west, pitching in with their five cents worth. All of them (no matter their origins) having drank their mother’s milk, their drink of impermanence.
Now they gaze so empty into the hazy shimmer of summer and the crowds of tourists.
It looks like pain.
It looks like pain.
but in the silence of this all, I feel too their hope.

At the bottom of the sea floor, there is dust from my dead skin cells and other bits left behind.
While fish are still eating this, I return to it year after year.
Stepping into this tiny opening, just enough to prolong the existence of humanity or lesser still, justify so many personal failings.
It’s dive down to this and eat of the knowledge, kill the Demons and prepare for the return to the home front.