Fragments are all we have

Buffalo Danger

I have seen the underside of the bridge at Owl Creek and learned first-hand that reality is not to be trusted. I have borne lightness and consumed heaviness; now rabbit holes fall into me. These fragments and countless others I stockpile, filling shelves, knowing full well the ruins have been cleared and a brand new movie theater raised in their place. I named my goldfish Hieronymo and watched him take revenge on the plastic Victorian diver as best he could, but did not feed him.


Life moves in cycles, the cycles move in cycles, none of them are in phase with each other. Were that to happen somehow, we would all be passengers on a broken theme-park ride, forced to confront the pistons and wires protruding obscenely in fluorescent emergency lighting from the heroes and monsters we thought were real.


parallax paragnosis of the picture-perfect paradox purity produces paranoid paroxysms and paralytic paralalia of prismatic portent; though the pulsing pressure present stirs pulses like profound passions played piano, parachromatic preponderous pleasantries pour with pat platitudes on pretty patios proofed against the poets' pounding pleas.



Time heals all wounds, they say. What they miss is the fact that time is merely fattening us up so that the great junky in the sky can push off 150,000 times a day.




Eyes in their last extremity see deeper, more clearly, than eyes that still cling to what they live for.





Buddhist teachings in the wrong hands can be dangerous weapons.