descarte's grave stone reads

"He who hid well lived well."

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forces pullin'

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When it rains it pours we say sink or float leaves for boats  in  a perfect puddle the playground is ours and the rain picks up we are singing we are swinging and everything is new for a couple of hours the grey arrived along with fall thoughts dad worries electric bill went up temporary crown broken mom split a gut laughing at an inside joke from childhood and the kids grow and grow and grow until we are all very old rain, rain splish splish splash thunder lightning listen- CRASH! Oh now feel it when it rains it pours centrifugal force and I see the grey and it smells like rain and I feel it I feel it Alive and afraid to lose. Less and less light on incredible views melancholy right on cue and I feel it
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B-Theory

Reclined at a ridiculous angle, waiting for the numbing gel to set in for a cavity fill, I stared at the ceiling and saw a commercial for a local funeral home that advertised using the faces and birth - death dates of a few recently departed.   It made me feel weird.   What an impulse we have.  The remaining.  The desperate instinct to send into the world some signal when the absence is felt.  He lived!  She lived!  We get the park benches and the plaques and the slabs of concrete and apparently the commercial spots.  Such a raw need, to feel that they will go on.  Some foreshadowing plea that somehow, might we all. Meanwhile, moths seem to be eating our winter wear and I'm afraid to check my collection of old journals and writing that are also stored under the bed.  What if there are holes in it all?  It occurred to me the other day that when I go, there's a strong likelihood that someone might just take a few glances and trash the...
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safety

Maybe I should return to writing everything down. Is anything really safe in a cloud? but then there's the other reduced to rubble Is all of life just a dull slate grey? or is that just the shell tender cracked a part  or piece  an obvious lack just a child inside who will watch and repeat  patterns and cycles joys and defeats and barely understand it at all London Bridge check the news dull slate grey and bomb bright hues sun up sun set all those basic needs unmet What connects me to you? something borrowed  sometimes blue walk a mile stay the night still adjusting to the new late light walls intact and for now we're alright And luckier than we know.
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