It's been an hour
Aboard this car
My hotel is near
Yet the traffic
made it far.
A magnificent sunset
Outside my window
Beautiful hues
Of red, pink, and yellow
The river reflected them
As we passed a bridge
Beauty doubled
As it was received.

When I hear it's not enough
I often wish time to stop
But I remember to breathe
I count
One...


Two...


Three...


I can feel my skin
My body trembles like a leaf in the wind
Is this autumn or spring?
I thought I heard a bird sing
Yet this cold gentle breeze
Oh wait...
Remember to breathe
One...


Two...


Three...


I'm here. I'm here.

I’m navigating a field of dark something-ness
Sitting quiet in morning air

In these cavities where my soul perceives life, I seek a heightened energy

Laying hidden behind wrinkled skin
tucked tightly into two beds of compact tissue
in this moment they rest purposefully as if sitting behind window curtains

They serve a common purpose when prompted,
To identify objects in this limiting dimensional plane.

Some days when I come here, I wander aimlessly across battle-torn countries of thought
It is essential to let the river take them
Watching them pass as an observer instead of the instigator
Feeling the depth of their sting grow distant

Sinking deeply into the dimension where we live beyond bodies

Where I am a bee pollinating the flower
I am the bird calling out in a resounding plea
I am the wind pushing through bamboo forests

Until breath inhaling and collapsing my cadaver becomes less of a grounding cord
And the mat placed beneath with intention is no longer a chain to the ground

There is now no face to inhabit,
The world; a faint memory of molding

Here the wind isn’t quite invisible
Temperature is not affected by her power
Bearing colors, intentions and tranquility

I let her carry me up and away

Just after landing, Walters spoke to the press, saying:[6][7]
It was something I had to do. I had this dream for twenty years, and if I hadn't done it, I think I would have ended up in the funny farm.
The aircraft was dubbed Inspiration I. Lawn Chair Larry was awarded the title of "At-Risk Survivor" in the 1993 Darwin Awards.
----
Later in his life,
Walters hiked the San Gabriel Mountains
and did volunteer work
for the United States Forest Service.
... broke up with his girlfriend
of 15 years and could only find work
sporadically as a security guard.[14]
On October 6, 1993,
at the age of 44, Walters died
by suicide
after shooting himself
in the heart
in Angeles National Forest.[14]

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LawnchairLarryflight>

When that one last thing was done fifty years ago,
if you are still reading this, then

you had somebody else's bucket list.

I know two older men that I used to care about, that go to the ER about 100 times each per year. Costing 100's of thousands of dollars to medicaid and medicare. As far as I know they never really paid taxes, which really doesn't matter to me. They go to the ER, only to be sent home, as their insurance is billed. One of the men, went to a local doctor 4 times in past two months...the 4th time they said they found a spot on his lungs, and he needed to come back and have it checked. He went yesterday to have it checked, and I am sure they will find it has gotten worse. Anyhow, he was at the ER twice today with breathing problems and high blood pressure. I had told him two years ago that if he keeps going to the doctor, they will find something. What we choose to think about always becomes more intense. If it is disease we think of, we get disease. He is all to pieces and I can't say I care, since this man watched me stop taking heart meds that they claimed kept me alive, and that was two years ago. He uses the local Catholic charity constantly to get free food, and then ends up at a Catholic hospital, sick. We manufacture sickness and wellness within ourselves. No faith needed...just belief. Our biology is what we believe it is. We are the only animal who can supposedly die of millions of different diseases. Think.

Back to the grind
I drive at the crack of dawn
Dragging yesterday's heartbreak
Lifting today's routine
And pushing tomorrow's anxiety

But steam rises from my sandwich
Walking down a pale carpet of Spam
Amid fluffy scrambled eggs and warm bread
She shivers in the car's AC
Her lithe form unfettered from all this worry

On her little stage she arabesques and pirouettes
Bathed in golden sunlight
With diffuse legs and arms
A routine written by thermodynamics
A spectacle only she and I know

This performance will last for the next thirty seconds
Already time is impatiently tapping its foot
But the steam cares not, for this is all she has
And there, waiting for the traffic signal
I am in the moment.