Walk the Line

Solar chlorophyll soaks foliage,
circling new cycles.
Spring rain paints a tainted pallet,
permeating a languid landscape of
monochrome complexion;
toiling, boiling, bubbling
into
sepia hues
seeping through
peering youth retinas,
exploding synapses of optic sensation
bleeding badly, splattering violently
over a vibrant canvas like Van Gogh.
Bold brush strokes
rush a blush of euphoria
coursing forcefully through elevated knees and
swaying flailing limbs
striding on spongy steps,
marching a merry line like
toy soldiers tramping their own fresh path
over a well-trodden path
surrounded on all sides
with wild
unbridled
wonder.

The Jester

Summoned by the court
he arrived head-high and confident
high-legging, zigzagging, arms flailing,
flaunting his shiniest
dilly-waggles and jimmy-jangles.

Do your little dance
jester.

He gyrates like a dyslexic spider
with a belly full of mirth and mead.

Make us merry mister marionette.
Entertain us you bumbling buffoon.

We are your judge and jury.
We are your fans and media
sitting on our thrones of armchair judgement,
passing down our slapstick verdict:
your sins are forgiven.

Just don't raise our taxes.

Mary Todd Lincoln

Her life
started in anonymity,
she wanted to be noticed;
advanced with tenacity,
she wanted to stand out;
grew into celebrity,
she wanted to be loved;
festered with egocentricity,
she wanted to be worshipped;
clawed into aristocracy,
she wanted to be better than;
decayed with vainglory,
she wanted to be remembered;
and crumbled in calamity,
inevitably.

Now she just wants anonymity.

Everybody knows her
but her.

She wanders around
in her own thoughts
walking awkwardly
in her own shoes.

The weight of glory
can be like a great story
dragged out into eight boring
chapters, when it
could have been two and
should have been one
short poem.

High Blood Pressure

We had just gotten a new Kitchenaide
for Christmas.
You know, one of those sleek Jetson's
looking things
that's aerodynamic from every angle
for whenever you may need that.

It's a muted yellow color
that stands out from every other color in our kitchen.
It's great to look at,
which they all are,
but we wanted to move up into the elite
part of society who actually used it.

We spent about 3 hours making dinner
one Sunday evening.
We made our own pasta, tomato sauce, and bread
while drinking wine and listening to jazz.

So after 3 hours of cooking, we sat down to eat
for about 4 minutes.
It was delicious, I think,
I couldn't really tell.
I don't think I really even took a breath between bites
I devoured it so fast.

Then I was sad.

Ever since then I have been enjoying my food more,
savoring it,
and not only have I developed a new
taste for tastes,
but I have adopted my savouring and enjoying strategy
to life in general.

Instead of just living in the moment,
I try to taste the moment.

Now maybe I can avoid high blood pressure
later in life.

Shame

I had been driving for 55 hours,
alone
and mostly in silence,
in search of answers,
but really in search of
the one true
question
that lay at the bottom of my soul.

Only when I discovered that question
could I truly listen for an answer.

I was answered that day
in the storm,
but I know now that I have also been answered
my whole life -
in a musical note,
a strange color,
a lightning bolt,
a mountain stream,
a lock of hair swinging from my wife's ear,
only I didn't know what question
was being answered.

Now I have a recurring dream
that I am in a great storm,
only I'm cowering, hiding,
running from the power striking all around me.

I'm terrified of the day
when I will finally summon the courage
and step out into the open field,
arms raised,
to embrace that wild,
unbridled power,
striking me to the core.

I'm terrified,
not that the light will reveal my inadequacies,
but that it will confirm the answers
I have been hearing my whole life.

I am ashamed of my glory.

John Reese Bessit

1787-1809


Raised in solitude
near Glynwedd, Wales
in a rotted cabin miles from anyone
in the deepest hollow of a dark wood
in fear and trembling

by an only father who failed to end the boy's life
by the age of four
by neglect and drowning;
not by a lack of effort,
but by drunkenness and cowardice
and his own early death.

John Reese Bessit didn't survive,
he LIVED.

The boy didn't know
jealousy or lust,
anger or pride.
He had new life.
He knew God,
new leaves and rainfall,
and always a new sunrise.

He listened to the birds.
I mean, he LISTENED to them.
He learned to whistle
to the exact pitch, each song
to each bird in the forest
to tell his thoughts, and in turn
to be trusted with their
well-traveled tales.

In the cover of night
he would slink down to the murky pond
to wade in the water
and wedge himself
beneath the muddy banks
to wiggle his body in the slime
and stare up at the moon.

John Reese Bessit
emerged from his wood
at the edge of town
at the age of 22
at dusk.

A Conversation I Hope I Never Have (ending with sit-ups)

"Taken out of context
this may sound
presumptuous,
but Jacob Richard Edwards,
I don't think you would make
a good living
pitching
lawn darts."

"Man,
I don't even know how to put that back
into context.
I've never touched a lawn dart,
and I'm not sure anyone could even make a living
pitching them."

"Am I really that presumptuous?"

"Look man,
I have no idea who you are,
how you know my middle name,
or why you're
standing on my toes."

"I have some news about your dog."

"I've never owned a dog."

"You might want to sit down for this..."