A cold light's kiss
rests upon my pale,
polished skin as a blanket would,in a windowless room, populated with plastic chairs and particle board tables. A greying man reads about a yacht he will never own, no matter how well he registers his credits and debits. And to think that every man may rise above this mediocrity, is to consider us all equal to the challenge, regardless of means or merit, when the deep, dark truth is: some of us are meant to drown. Man's greatest flaw is arrogance. We will the kingdom of god to be less than what our imperfect hands can create. Out into the night, our lights fight back the once peaceful, slow ease of darkness, with the clamor and bustle of movement. Rubber tires, rubber soles on rubber shoes. I don't remember the feel of cold, wet earth between my toes. My socks are water resistant, they wick away inconvenient happenstance, replace it with room temperature, comfortable, lifeless control. Katrina proved the unthinkable. The kingdom of god is still unsympathetic to our powerful, persuasive unimportance. And all the science in the world can't change the ability of water to swell to thirty feet and break on our fragile drift wood homes, pulling the debris out to sea. Philo knew the Logos, as did all prescientific minds before the pursuit of progress, revealed an unrelenting truth: All came from the dust and all return to the dust. We are fractured now, a doctored, rehabilitating whole on this green earth where in the wake of eventuality, even the highest mountains are laid low by a soft rain and simple breeze.
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