The day began in confusion,
with the cloud settled on the ground.
Lending ethereal beauty,
dimming traffic sound.
It’s mists kissed my windshield,
almost hid the rising sun-
sphere’s heat persuaded
till the fog had to run.
any chink, potential opening
sense of give.
Thrusts in customized blade,
so small, but in a spot to
While the flushed glorious face
soft eyes beaming.
Critiques so rare in this age,
where truth is absolutely bared-
what is perceived as kindness
soothes, feeds delusion-
that leads to greater cruelty
The draft of the aquariums’ air conditioning welcomed me and drew me in like a cooling hug. The fall day was keeping with the Indian summer that had stretched through September and showed evidence of pushing itself into October. With it being off-season and the middle of the week, there were only sparse clusters of people in various areas of the lobby. I assumed most were locals, but there was always the one obvious tourist, in the stereotypical loud flowing shirt and bermuda shorts. At odds to the light-hearted outfit were a set of mirrored aviators, pushed up on top of the head. This man wandered alone, with a small digital camera hanging around his neck.
A strange pity stabbed in my gut at seeing him alone. His thinning ashy hair and leathery face had a pair of the brightest green eyes that appeared to take in everything with sharp insight. Approaching the pool in the middle of the room, I studied the sea life that small children were allowed to handle, glancing at him as best I could. Peripheral vision didn’t catch much besides the bright orange flowers on his shirt. I edged over to a spot where I was semi-hidden, taking in the sight of him more. I noticed the left hand hanging at his side was bronze, but with a subtle scar where a wedding ring has once clung. He strolled up to an exhibit nearby, and I saw a five o’clock shadow with bits of grey and dark blonde. Under his eyes there was a puffiness that indicated either being a heavy drinker, or extreme tiredness.
A part of me wanted to approach him, and ask more of his story. A strange fear and shyness held me at bay. I wondered if when he was married, he had children. I wondered if he had worked too many hours at a job he hated, to give his kids all he could. Maybe his divorce was years of built up frustration over breaking his back and having nothing to show for it.
Maybe he wasn’t divorced at all, and his wife had died. Maybe, maybe.
As I watched, he lowered his camera, rubbing his eyes. Transfixed, I watched him head toward the exit, open the door, and turn left onto the sidewalk outside. When he was gone, the life I had tentatively constructed seemed to shatter, disappear.
The rest of the day I wandered, but couldn’t shake the image of the tourist.
Born of water and the Spirit,
gracious words to the inquirer
who demanded audience of Him at
Confusion casts it’s veil over
clay stuffs listening ears.
Anothers’ ears he opened with a cry of
and would do the same again
Nose smashed on bakery windows,
or jewelry cases, though penniless;
hugs initiated with
an awkward lack of reciprocation-
heart yawning to receive
the object of desire.
White sharp rows, picket-
cold chain link, trapped barbed poison.
Ivy twines softly.
Sheets of rose color
Amber warmth spreads fully out
single diamond gone.
Scour land and sea,
through scores of wood in it’s
thinned, communicative form.
Saturate the brain with latitude,
weather patterns and travelocity’s rates.
Maybe someday I will turn off those commercials,
and take my first voyage to the mailbox at the end of
Number one is supreme, and
calls for a toy, a supplement for amusement,
a sounding board.
Little required but a bit of food, water, and
a dingy old slipper to chew sometimes-
the price is right.