My religion
Beyond the walls of any church,
between the lines in ancient texts,
behind the crumbled, cracking walls
I have sought the gods of this place.
Before others were imported,
if they came with those who traveled
(and sometimes I doubt that the case,
for once accustomed to a place
it seems unlikely they would up
and move here and there on a whim
or chance relocation to some
distant shore, lest for a good cause –
and who can guess what makes causes
just? Gods can be inscrutable)
there were other spirits right here,
energies that birthed and flowered,
changing form, being and ceasing
like in any place, alive.
I know they are still waiting here,
for despite the sometimes quite grand
displays that some claim for others,
I sense their hand behind the scenes;
They laugh, I think, at my attempts
to contact them by strange methods —
calling out dusty, foreign names
(whose owners can be found at home,
in the deserts where they may dwell,
perhaps, but need not travel here)
and reciting stiff and hackneyed
prayers, that describe embraces
between a Lover and Beloved
that are not me and these gods here
and now. These are not ancestral
roots feeding the tree of myself
that is today seeking water,
not a mere picture of a stream.
What need have I of these strangers’
gods? If I were by history
connected to them, tied through blood
across time, their divine fingers
laced with mine in a clasp of clan,
perhaps they would answer my call.
But the Semites, Egyptians,
Hindus and Buddhists have their own
claim of descent; and my Celtic
genes dispair of calling Roman
or Greek divinities my truth.
And Cernunnos, Herne, and Woden,
the myriad of Tuatha?
They call me, true enough, but stay
their ground, there in their own homelands.
So I have sought the gods that live
here, that dwell right where I am now.
Not in the visages of those
who bartered in Mobilian,
but who were found here long before,
without the names of man applied
upon their manifestations,
coursing formless throughout this land,
filling up and emptying swamps,
raising the river and scorching
through the summer months, their glances
giving and taking life and breath,
beyond the illusion of death
and waiting in infinite space
for those who seek them out and find
the universe inside themselves:
behind the crumbled, cracking walls,
between the lines of ancient texts,
beyond the walls of any church.
23 OCT 2003
10.17.03
Testing the Fax Machine
BEGIN TEST
THIS IS A TEST TRANSMISSION
Other than to pass electrons from one point to another in an attempt to verify the operational status of an electronic device, it serves no real purpose, conveys no meaningful information, represents no parties, suggests no agendas, intimates no conditions, passes no judgments, includes no warranties, reaches no agreements, cuts no deals, posts no bills, paints no portraits, does no windows and seals no fates.
Upon receipt (which in and of itself should prove beyond the pale the efficacy of the above referenced purpose – that being a test of the receiving capabilities of the receiving device), if such transmission results in the generation or production of printed material, the recipient may feel free to spindle, fold, staple, mutilate or otherwise crumble, lacerate, disintegrate, masticate, macerate, eviscerate or in any manner whatsoever denigrate the morphological properties of that resultant document, including but not limited to any number of degrees of alteration to the physical and defining properties of said document, up to and including complete destruction and/or annihilation.
If this transmission is received merely in electronic form and without accompanying printed version(s), the wise recipient could no no worse that simply to delete it.
If this transmission is not received, however, the above instructions and suggestions may be freely ignored or otherwise disregarded. Of course, having not received them, by virtue of not receiving this transmission from which said instructions originate, that task will be exceedingly easy to perform.
THIS IS A TEST TRANSMISSION
END TEST
10.17.03
A letter to UPS :)
Dear Customer Service:
It seems to me that in this day and age of home offices and increases in online ordering that result in shipped goods, that the disparity between the delivery promise times for a business address and a residential address are incongruous with the reality of personal and business shipping.
When the cost of shipping is the same regardless of whether a package is shipped to a home or office, it seems unfair that the delivery time options differ. Unless the rates charged for delivery to a home are LESS than the rates for a business, the delivery times should be the same. There is no reason why a package for which equal shipping costs are paid should be delivered by noon in the case of a business and “by the end of the day” in the case of a residence.
In short, personal shippers are NOT getting what they pay for or request.
In my case, I use UPS for both business AND personal shipping from the same address. As a business customer, I expect and receive timely service. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for my experience as a home customer. This seems wrong to me; and it leads me to believe that I should have all packages, whether they are business-related or not, addressed to my business, to ensure that when I need a package delivered in the morning (or before noon or three) that it actually arrives in that timeframe – that I, whether a business or personal customer, have paid for.
10.12.03){kind=link}
Morning on the Levee
Along the edge of the levee,
atop the slow hill slanting up
against the bank of the canal
there is a worn down path of grass
that leads from just nearby my house
to where the water meets the lake.
This morning, feeling rather bold
I took a detour down this track
just to see how long it would take
to walk its winding way, and back.
It took nearly a whole hour,
and left me tired, but not vanquished.
And to see the waves crashing there
against the rim of reclaimed land,
watching seagulls float in the wind
as the sun tried to break its way
through the thick, gray morning rain clouds,
made the trip worth the traveling.
12 OCT 2003
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Short Subject
So much to say
With words, and yet
Each one is edged
With some regret
That says, I will
But soon forgets
And then, at night
Wakes in a sweat
From dreams of things
not happened yet
And spends the morning
Still upset
With words to say,
But you can bet
The extent of that
alphabet
is like the rain
in that it’s wet
And fraught with perils
Still unmet
With expectations
cast and set
A mold to break,
A room to let.
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