Sitting by the Sea

“So, what is it,” she asked.

“I’m really not sure,” I said, “it’s

blue and black and red and gold,

with lightning bolts and squirrely

looking swirls scattered all about it.”

“Is it alive,” she asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said, “it

barked a little while ago, but there’s

no mouth that I can see, no nose or

holes for it to breathe.”

“Should I kick it,” she asked.

“No,” I said, “I think that might be

cruel, besides it might be magic

or grant wishes or be from another

world or even another Dimension.”

“Can I touch it,” she asked.

“I am not sure about that wisdom,” I said,

“it might be something bad still, we just

don’t quite know yet. I think we should

probably call someone.”

“Who can we call,” she asked.

“Maybe a scientist,” I said, “maybe

a priest, maybe a doctor or cop,

maybe someone with a college

degree in animal husbandry.”

“I’m going to poke it with this stick,” she said.

“Be careful,” I said, “you know what happens

to the pokers in the movies. They always lose a

hand or face, or get some space disease that

turns them into flesh eating monsters.”

“I’m not going to poke it then,” she said.

“Well I’m not going to either,” I said.

We sat on our haunches, in the beach sand,

staring at the unknown creature, our brows

furrowed in contemplation,

as the sea slowly lapped the

shore, lazily tickling our toes

and childish curiosity.

Activation

Activation,

when the blood is roiling

in the veins, thick and hot,

pulsing in vicious milliseconds

through the extremities,

electrifying every nerve

and twitching the muscles.

Set off,

buy the unkind words,

the devilish acts,

the hardened hearts,

the weak minds,

the grief of millennia

and the deep schism of double-talk.

Bursting,

in waves of fiery words,

a klaxon of shouting,

repeating the furious chants

of threadbare hearts so casually

broken again and over through time,

erupting in rageful plumes of lava.

Spilling,

from between the scarred cracks

of tired skin onto the streets, into

the fray, obliterating the status quo

on every corner of every congested

town, every packed boulevard and

overcrowded city.

Embattled,

in an obvious struggle against

apathy, obliviousness, and the

mindless ethos of unchecked

“that’s the way it is” – ness.

Fighting perceptions of alleged

nature, through tall grass.

To victory,

of all the embittered battlers of

stagnant, seething rancor.

To cheer and laud the triumphs

of humanity over dehumanization.

In arm and arm, unified, forever,

a long fought for peace, built on martyr’s graves.

The Munch

There’s an insatiable hunger

chewing at the edges of society

I have deemed it, “The Munch”.

It’s out there, on the fringe,

Munching.

The Munch eats everything in its

path, never stopping, relentlessly

feeding on the joys, miseries and

the cavalcade of emotions we’re capable of.

Like locust’s jaws scissoring back and forth.

I can hear it in the soft echoes of night,

in the chants and screams of the righteous

and the unjust.

A crunching, munching, mashing, chewing,

sickly sound swallowing everything.

The Munch eats the will of the brave,

the courage of the weak, the minds of

the smart, the curiosity of the dim,

the backbone of the wise and the

moral fiber of the elected.

The Munch eradicates fields of

thought, of will, of empathy and

compassion. It chomps down into

the essence of humanity, taking

giant gaping chunks from us.

We hardly notice. The Munch is

actually quite small.

Microscopic. Infinitesimal.

Its work is done over long stretches

of time.

Munching in the dark,

Munching in the sunlight,

Munching in the fields,

munching in the cities,

Munching for millennia.   

Until one day,

all that’ll be left,

is The Munch.
And we’ll be the empty table settings

from the third course meal.

I Don't Know

How I know that I don’t

know?

I don’t know.

But not knowing isn’t the

end.

It’s a beginning.

Knowing only comes after

admitting not knowing.

Once I think I know, I can

then confirm that I might

not know after all,

which would require

more admissions of a

lapse or lack in knowledge.

To which I can gain more

knowledge, thus again leading

me to the conclusion that I know,

that I just don’t know.

It’s okay not to know,

it is not okay to leave it

at that.

Knowing may require digging into

the depths of empathy previously

unexplored, or taking time to

listen, to hear, to read, to study.

Then I can say, proudly and most

assuredly, “Now I’m sure, that

I don’t know.”

And maybe knowing may never come,

maybe my life experiences will never

lead me to complete knowing, but I

won’t stop my desire to want to know.

That’s how I know that  I don’t know.