Life's Short (especially if you're an ant)

I ran over the top of an ant hill today with my lawn mower. It was the 2^nd time in a row I had done so with purpose, though I run over it every week regardless in order to cut the grass. I sat and watched as hundreds of ants scurried from their caves widening small holes in the surface like an inverted meteor shower scampering on top of each other with a unity about them arming themselves to fix their fort (from my intruding blow) with alacritous speed and burdened backs. I came back around the circle of my side yard’s mowing circuit to see about half as many ants  as before still working like crazy even though I could no longer see the imprint of my tire in their mound. I thought about how disheartening it would be for the ant to work so hard to rebuild their fortress only for me to knock it down every 7 days on Saturday. Does the ant know this pattern? Can they predict when it’s coming?

The average ant lives only about 40 days which would allow them to see their hill destroyed only 5 times at what would feel like 12 year intervals for a human. I thought that maybe I shouldn’t feel bad about it (after I convinced myself that it may have been a little more vindictive than necessary). But then I thought that perhaps just once is enough to ruin a life. Even an ant’s.

The "Weed Culture"

I haven’t officially written on the subject of marijuana though I’ve had the conversation a myriad of times. This is not all I have to say but merely a small portion of a large and influential topic. I will begin by saying that I do think that it should be legalized, that I believe there are positive effects, that medically there are few negative effects. I am neither a Doctor nor a licensed professional in any related area and I can speak only from what I observe. I hope these claims allow you to keep reading for it’s mainly the smoker that I write.

Not once have I lit a cigarette or joint or cigar or pipe or sucked by any means any illegal substance. I do not write this as a fellow smoker but one having known a number. I write this knowing that this already lessens my credibility, but I hope you continue because it is that very feeling—the feeling that no one has the right to tell you differently, that I see as the real problem with weed. Marijuana does not necessarily hurt people. It ought to legalized however, for a different reason: because marijuana infiltrates people. It becomes all they can talk about. It’s a not-so-secret society of shared experiences that in this present state is special for their “moral resistance” and bold face defiance of government’s imposition on their personal proclivities. This is what is wrong: the weed culture. It has flourished because of its illegality and it has almost demanded its constituents to engage in its culture exclusively. The drug may not in and of itself take people away from functioning sober society but the culture almost demands it.

Like all secrets it becomes so much more glorious when someone else knows. But now, that someone else has turned into a society, one filled with long-boarders and beanies and cut-off jeans with Rastafarian shirts. Not to say that these any of these are bad, I possess many of the items but it has come to define a culture—one that everyone knows exists but no one can make assumptions about. How many old women must we stop to justify searching the one way suspicious passenger? If it bothers them then they should act less suspicious. The problem with this “Weed Culture” is that it centers on the ecstasy of being suspicious, the effervescence of flirting with the line of law. No one changes and pretends they aren’t a smoker because they enjoy being one. It is their identification, the group to which they call home. Most people can’t call one group home. Most people have a much harder time searching for people like them and growing themselves to make that happen. Weed offers an escape from this. It is an all unifying bond that allows anyone to fit in somewhere. This is nice; a high in life, but it can’t last. It doesn’t last. There is very little addictive in the substance yet the culture is nigh impossible to resist.

I believe that this government must relinquish its grip on controlling marijuana. They are doing an awful job and in an obstinate effort to remain stringent on their past rules they have allowed this culture to grow and grow and expand further and further into the youth of the country. I firmly believe that when my country steps in too close violating God’s laws that it should be dealt with passive or even violent resistance however, just because marijuana is not bad it serves no good and necessary purpose for me and while being a long-time proponent of legalization I’ve often wondered whether I would smoke or not, but I realize that my desire is only for the culture, that fitting in to a mold, and when that is removed I, along (I believe) with many others will move past the immaturity of weed. Some will move to other drugs but I refuse to believe I need them. I refuse to believe that my mind cannot reach the same level of depth on its own. My philosophies are no less certain sober than that of someone high. Weed now is grown up. It’s mature and idyllic like driving a car at 14 before you are  supposed to and not wrecking. But just because weed doesn’t wreck me doesn’t mean I need to get in the car. This maturity is façade. This whole culture stems out of insecurity and immaturity—considering ourselves less able than we are, rushing towards ease and comfort settling in anywhere whether than striving for somewhere.

If I had invented the moon

If I had invented the moon it would have been 3 times as big as the earth so that the Light would kiss everything. It would have been able to smile so that those who don't dream could close their eyes. It would shine through walls so that I never have to live in darkness, nor open my eyes and not see you. It would have earth orbit around it fast enough that we would feel like we're twirling, and the world would be a stage and nothing could stop me from watching your performance. It would be so bright that my dreams would become reality because I could not close my eyes. If I had invented the moon it would be weightless on a yo-yo string tied to my hand so that I could push it away only long enough to know how much I missed having it so close, and never push it far enough away that it can't come back nor push it so far as to erase that smile on its face when it comes flying back to share itself with me. If I had invented the moon gravity wouldn't exist and we could float to its surface as it shines through us and i could put out my finger and conduct you. I could charge you with the light of the moon. And in a way it would be only our light and though other's would see it, only we could feel it. And I would kiss you and it would shock you because we would be charged with each other; this light would be ours only, and from a million mile a way we could touch the same moon. But if I had invented the moon it would be all I could do and my imagination would never do the justice of inventing you.

I stood there (a second attempt at spoken word on wasting opportunities)

Rain fell that night

You and I dripped in the house

Sweat and summer rain formed puddles on the hardwoods but we didn’t care

It felt like kissing in a pool; the water in between your mouth and mine

I’d swim that ocean however long if your lips were on the other side

And we stopped and I saw that question in your eyes

I said, “don’t close your eyes I can’t bear not to see them

And I hope that’s not a tear

And it wasn’t,

You blinked and I kissed you

I missed you

My hands landed somewhere on your back I guess

Though I wish they were elsewhere.

I was feeling much now

You leaned in a little more and kissed me back

This time I stopped confused as to why a woman like you would want to do so

And you did so

You smiled unfreezing me my mouth dropping open

You numbed me and filled me flying inside

And I stood there.

I longed to love you and wondered how

But all you needed was me present, now

And I stood there

As you played the lead

And I not an actor more like a stage

You poured yourself into me and I let you go through

You poured out my ears and out my nose

You dribbled out of my mouth and fell like sand through my fingers

And I stood there

Later that night as you did all that you could do

You left as I stood in thought

And as I pondered,

You wandered

I wondered where

There

in your bed you fell exhausted, disheartened

As the rain washed nothing away

You loved that night

I thought that night

You cried that night

And I stood there

Did he really say no?

It’s a sweet irony—love. I don’t ever claim we had it, just that one night, that first night—and what can you even say of sex in a bed, that conventional bullshit. It’s meaningless—perfect only for drunks in need of comfort and old married couples grown out of spontaneity. Despite this, our first time soars with the wind lost among whorring clouds—a terrible night with too much passion thundering the entirety of my mind. Affairs can do that I suppose. Increase passion. Such is the case with filling any need. And here I am on the ground looking up and you seem to be flying through me that stolid expression. Am I a ghost? Like a tissue for your adulterous sneeze yet unable to wipe away your tracks— like water in need of washing itself. My knees burn from this rug (I don’t know why in hell you keep this ratty thing). Will you not say anything? I come at you begging at your door; in your house, but you can’t give me a response. You stand there leaning on that vomit of a sofa with that contorted and grotesque face of confusion. (You never like to be confused—you can’t be confused, you run too fast from it.)

Oh now you want to talk, now you think you have some words—no. You don’t think this has been hard for me. That every phone call I want only to hear your voice at the other end, how when it doesn’t come I hate myself for hope. This isn’t easy! Kneeling  alone with you standing right there as like a mediocre tapestry my life and my dreams unravel themselves and sweep hope in the dust pan and recycle my future—our future. I don’t know her, how she makes she feel, how she does the things that I can’t, how she says the things that I won’t, how she makes love to you. Wake up! O don’t give me that look, with the red in your cheeks, 17 months ago that was you and me and those cheeks were not red, that mouth was not so dangling. What has she done to you; that girl, you deserve at least a woman. Or maybe that is the biggest irony of all, me on my knees I think all stand up so I can you look in your blank eyes. That’s what you deserve, to be penetrated by a capable mind, to be looked at by someone able to judge. So I’ll have a look not that you’ll mind nor could you say so if you did.

Still no response but that half opened maw?[she says with a laugh and a grin] However strenuous my earlier efforts forgive my mendicancy for I have found myself no longer in the emptiness of your eyes. Your smiles corners no longer contain me.

Thank you I guess, I’ll just go ahead and go

Wake up (and get a new rug),

lock the door behind me

 give that little girl a hug

Wake Up Dreamer

As beckon Twilight rises moon
And bed to me it calls
Reconciling me afternoon
My sleep in dream it falls

Away to fantasy whisked away

Freedom by me alone, it rings
And shadows and death die and play
And about I dance and run and sing

The road is marked with candy not yet bit

In a rabbit suit, a constable
Waging a wagging, long-eared fit
Erupting with a high scream pitch implacable

And the rose faces in the sky twist and moan

And the green sun sets beyond the smoke
Of the house that sits upon a stone
On a single side unbroke

With shudders rusty and of purple roof where

Inside drinking sugars fit not this world for

In I enter and welcoming there

Is my furry family matadors

They fill me a pour though small am I

In their great big colorful world
Clapped we our feet and fly we tried

And sometimes we even could

Happily in land this me ‘til with alarm arisen

And see otherwise my eyes

The loss this sun has driven

In morning with its lies

If Jesus Came back for the Day

I got up early that day, took a shower for far too long ‘til I smelled like Fabreeze and Gatorade.  My hair I fashioned backwards as if to erase the time between the last time He came here. I put on a suit at first but as I looked in the mirror I saw a Jesus in a tunic and coat and asked why I would try and improve upon this. Fashion is the myth of an era and Jesus, of every one, never seemed obsessed with looking the best. I didn’t shave but merely cleaned up the stray hairs which sought to grow in patches instead of a beard. Putting on a white V-neck and jeans ‘cause I couldn’t figure out why not, I sat down on the bed. Usually I would lay down again since it was nearly 2 hours before he was coming, but I knew enough of myself to know I would fall asleep. Like Peter and James at Gethsemane, I would miss my Jesus’ pain and agony for my own pleasure. I have done that enough and if God was to condescend to flesh again and spend a day with me, I would not miss it. In part because I have the faith of Thomas and in part because I want to learn, but mainly because I refuse to hear the words, “I never knew you” when I stand at His judgment seat.

Jesus came to the door. He didn’t need to knock but I let Him, immediately regretting how I made Him wait. He stood in the door of my house under the shade of the porch. He wore a white linen short-sleeve dress shirt and light khaki pants. His shirt was unbuttoned the first three buttons and it wrinkled around his tan chest. He had brown leather bracelets around his wrists and penny loafers on. I fell. There was nothing else good to do at that moment. All of my questions seemed to skyrocket out of my skull and into his being, as if he had consumed me. So much I wanted to say, gone in an instant; thankfully, or I would have never learned anything. I don’t remember a span of time after that but I recall there was an amount of walking and then we were sitting on a bench at Squirrel Lake Park. I’ve tried ever since He left to remember His voice, and while I feel Him as if He is still here, the sound of His voice seems quenched. We drove for a while and he made me drive. I guess it makes sense, he probably doesn’t have a license, but Jesus wouldn’t wreck. I made a stupid joke about Jesus take the Wheel and He smiled—actually I think he laughed; yes, it was a deep and hearty laugh like Eli in I made you special. All afternoon Jesus seemed to be working on my mind and soul. They were certainly His. I felt higher than a kite—drunk on peace and overflowing with love. For brief moments I was pierced with the insecurities brought by my sinfulness and a shameful feeling now having seen the Son, but at these moments He never failed to fill me again. All I knew was Love and everything of my past—my arguments, my sins—all was overcome with the flood of His love and Grace. I melted beneath the weight of His love. I melted silently—which is rare. Before I was aware He was saying goodbye—as if it were some surprise I threw my hand up like a toddler and mumbled goodbye. Yet I didn’t say I Love you. Maybe I was embarrassed maybe I forgot, but I would have done anything at that moment and anything now to share those words with Him. I missed Him as it turned out—still do.