With heavy sigh
A single leaf falls
The first I've caught in the act

It slides down my right shoulder
Kissing my skin with parched lips
'Save me,'
It whispers
"No,"
I sing

A single, skittering chipmunk
Bounds across the soggy banks
Of Lake Fred
Unafraid and nearly near enough to touch
But keenly and instinctually aware
Of my innate barbarism
He keeps his distance

"Did you see that?"
I call to him
Pointing to the crumpled leaf beside me
"Summer is dying."

The chipmunk stops
Cranes its neck and twitches its whiskers in consideration
And replies
'Of course it is,
What else would it do?'

We exist within spheres
Bubbles of perception
Roughly circular ripples of both know knowns and known unkowns
And then there
Right at the edge of these spheres
Just outside the very last shred of our understanding of how the world works

Is how the world really works

I've seen it
Only briefly
And not because I'm smarter or more enlightened than anyone else
But rather because I do better drugs than most
And while my short term memory is ******
I have managed to bring back an excerpt of my journal
And it reads:


"This world is a process of conflict
A construct begat by the clashing of two equal and opposite forces
One of the forces
Is called Fate
And the other
Is called Choice
And the sum of existence consists of everything that falls in between

And the really ****** up part
Is that we already know this

But life
Has affixed us with blinders that force us to see
Everything
So much so, in fact
That a sense of 'self'
Is considered hedonism in most circles

But the soul
Does not have a default setting
Pain
Is not an illusion
And despite what you may have been told
There is no compelling evidence to suggest that there isn't another world on the other side of my mirror

The are no empty spaces
Only effects that have yet to be caused
There are no reflections on lake shores
That is merely the image of God

"Richard?"
"Yes, Kasandra?"
"Why can't I feel you?"
"Because we are dead, my dear."

"Oh..."

The air has begun to adopt that
damp and coppery hint of decay,
every breath a syrupy drop of autumn.  
Each morning
the chorus of birds that greet the rising sun thins,
its members gradually cashing in on their accrued vacation time
and jetting off to winter homes in Florida.  
Tourists.
All birds are tourists.
They won't be here to see the snow
turn to viscera under the tread of our lesser travels.
  No,
they'll be tanning by gated watering holes,
discussing the downward trend in early worm returns.

Run

                     Run you wide-eyed idiots

              Run while your stride still carries strength
       And purpose

Run as far as the roads will allow
              Absorb experience
                            Expel assumptions

                                                 Run over broken and uneven surfaces
              Adjust your pace as needed
                                                        Alter your course as the terrain demands
                     But retain momentum

       Run
              Til the sun bleeds crimson on charcoal skies
And the cooling ground tempers your callouses

                     Run you wide eyes idiots
       While your blameless arrogance still empowers you
                                          While you undiscovered mortality keeps you safe from harm
                            While you still know everything

       Run alone
              Or in groups
                     Til your breath fails you
                            Or your legs fall off
                                   To catch up with your future
                                          Or to escape your past
                                                 With pride
                                           Or prejudice


                     Just run


                                                                                              
                                                                                        You'll be a harder target

Today I had a visit from my friend the albatross
Who sang of petty head thieves, sweaty bed-sheets, love and loss
And I scoffed
Because I 'get it'
But that doesn't make it tangible
It's just another hand for starving kids to sink their mandibles
"You animal!"
The albatross replied
"How could you be so cold?"
I told him it's a medical response to getting old
An unfortunate condition I have taught myself to weather
The day I learned to hold my ground
By plucking my own feathers