our interchange cannot rest
ever-moving
with emphasis on transformation
how can one capture
that which constantly moves?
how can one name
that which abhors naming?
i cannot follow
when there is no path
so i float above
listening intently

are you a potential butterfly?
you do not make a sound

when i am tired, i sit
when i am sad, i think
and when i am loved, i grow

but do not sit, for you may become restless
do not think, for you may reflect sadness
and do not grow, for you may be loved
and when you are loved, i will not capture
i will only trust. to continue us
like wind carries pollen
with no preference
flower to flower -- and rest for winter
to be back in time, next spring

We can laugh in harmony with the sound of brakes on a railroad track.

And then we can wholeheartedly appeal to our tradition of jocular behavior, us "friends," finding humour in everything.  But then what of sons Miller and Carlo, those sprouts who almost gained afteryear but instead lost potential? Each cast his kinetic buildup into the void.

A blight on a long awaited and otherwise joyful venture has formed into a dark blister.

You can leave your wall and hope that your brother or sister left her wall too.

And then reach for his or her skin bound appendages, because thats all they are.

All we are.
Bags of flesh.

And when we wrap ourselves around each other we become a collection of flesh -- more blood and bone to pour salt over.
more emotion and loss to sober up on.

So if we pretend for a moment that all we lost yesterday was a bag of flesh...
Will it make us feel better?
If we attempt to lessen what we see as the most important of all?


Life torn early,
Life most important,
Youth most treasured.

Shall we count our loss as one more and move on?

Are we destined to, in somber passing, occasionally remember the ones that failed to make this 12 year journey?

Should we have expected another suicide for another year?

And statistically, should we have prepared ourselves, in fear of another tragedy?

First a train then a shotgun, or a rope or a bottle of pills and now we are forced to compare the meat to the blood, the brain to the skull, the ***** to the white capped candy: the gore of it all.

In the end we will quantify our loss as a bag of flesh and inevitably feel this sadness scamper away into the depths of our crushed hearts and worrisome minds.

Because in the end that's all we are.

Bags of flesh.

this stage of my being
is but one plateau of many
stepping toward some end
of desired prestige and glory

when the glass is finally filled
and begins to overflow
the hand will then atrophy
the wearied gear will show

but for what purpose
is the reach for ripened fruit?
to feed some misplaced hunger?
or satiate some awful wonder?

the end is all the same
no matter the path thereto
since every high to me
may as well be a low to you