Playing in the dirt, a small patch of dried, grey black soil, the landscape of adventure and imagination. A child’s playground.
The dry, cracked, ground, a crevasse to overcome, a vein of Earth to test your skills against in the pursuit of your miniature goals. Endless mystery.
The location of the Pirate’s treasure, the tomb of some ancient Pharoah to be discovered, a patch of desert to be explored, the ground for the epic final battle.
Playing in the dirt, fingernails filthy with the ground, knees dirty and lightly scratched, but forgotten in imagination and fantasy.
A tiny landscape of unmeasurable potential, expansive in a young mind, but hardly a patch of land worth noting with old eyes.
No more playing in the dirt, when bills are due, projects need completing, and we must suspend our desires with practical things, and put our toys on the shelf.
Except this toy. This toy, I will keep close. We never know when the opportunity to play in the dirt might come again, and our imaginations are aglow with adventure.
The ridge over the desert, high in the sands, away from the prying eyes of parents and pervs, and those not cool enough for Make-Out Ridge.
The Kids of Make-Out Ridge; they make out. Car loads of horny teens, drive up to the ridge, and kiss each other.
They writhe and press, peck and paw, lustily gnawing on each other as if life on this planet would cease to be if they stopped touching.
Row after row, of foggy windowed cars, rocking and rolling back and forth, with every impassioned embrace, teens living and dying with each soulful kiss.
They talk of love, soul-mates, children, their lives, while cuddled in the post kiss embrace, arm in arm, hand over hand.
The sexual enthusiasm at a fevered peak; but so few couples go all the way at Make-Out Ridge, because that’s not what you do at Make-Out Ridge. It’s for kissin’ and for cuddlin’.
If you want to go all the way, you have to go all the way down, to Eve’s Valley, where the Drive-in Movies used to be. That’s where the bad kids go. The bad sex kids and their sexy sexiness.
The bad kids and their liberated ideas, and bodies and minds and cool clothes; they all “do it” at Eve’s Valley; which is what all the Kids of Make-Out Ridge think anyway.
The Kids of Eve’s Valley, they think the same about the Kids of Make-Out Ridge, and no one really knows, and no one really cares.
Now, where did you say you wanted me to drive you?
Man walked on the Moon, 53 years ago, today; July 20, 1969.
A collaborative effort of colossal achievement undertaken by men and women of such different backgrounds, histories and beliefs, making something that seemed like an impossible dream, become a reality.
And today we can’t even agree on anything. Or at least, anything of consequence. Or whether a Hot Dog is a sandwich or not. Is it?
I’d like to get back to the Moon, so we can see the Earth for what it is; one planet, inhabited by hundreds of thousands of different species and lifeforms.
Borderless and uninterrupted by the arbitrary map lines drawn by long dead monarchies or diplomats, and as a true single planet, adrift, in a void. Lonely.
The great discoveries are still out there, and yet; they are here too, right on our own blue dot. In the eyes and hearts of our fellow humans, as we do our best to navigate the isolated Earth.
The collaborative discoveries of acceptance and love, to be worked on by so many, shared and embraced, to be marveled upon with equal awe. As any space exploration dream come true.
The Moon, staring down at us, working on the tides, helping out with gravity, wondering if we’ll ever visit again, and if we’ll ever get our shit together enough so we can.
It’s just fun to say, “That shit is bonkers!” See, so fun!
“It’s bonkers to impose the morals of the minority upon the majority.” See, supes fun to say.
Bonkers. It so adequately describes the actions of people whom appear to have struck their heads very hard, as to “bonk” their heads, on the boulders of their mountain of judgment as they tumble to their inevitable doom.
Yes, bonkers. I can hear those screaming jerks tumbling down now. Asses over ears as they plummet, into the crevasses of their own inept certitude.
“We’re the moral majority,” the bonkers bonk heads scream, “We know the will of the Christian God…,” as they grasp and cling to the dying roots of a long past time in our history, before losing their grip and falling into the abyss of their own making.
I cannot actually comprehend how bonkers it really is to judge people without ever having walked in their shoes. Even if that footwear happens to be huge clown shoes. Or those of a ten-year-old girl.
But, I suppose it’s bonkers of me to have any expectations upon certain types to have any compassion or empathy or enough self-knowledge to know better than to enforce their will on those that simply do not believe the same thing as they do.
It’s a bonkers World I suppose. Stupendously Bonkers.
I rubbed my eye and felt the subtle squeak of my eye against my eyelid, as I tried to clear my vision, blinking, blink…
This page flickering white on the desktop in a photon mockery of anything I try to attach to it. Vapid vastness.
Have I written about everything? Is there really nothing left for me to say? I can’t think of a thing, wracking my brain all day.
Do I try the murder story? No, I’m tired of death. Do I attempt the weird Twilight Zone style twist story where it was Earth all along? No. Meh.
In an era of exhaustion; emotionally, physically, and mentally; it’s hard to stay fresh and crisp, on the cutting edge of wordplay and in the pugilistic ring of poetry.
I feel disaffected by my own words, far away from any meaning, or substance, as if they are already gathering dust on some ancient library bookshelf, written in a dead language no one alive can decipher.
I rub my eye again, it’s bothering me, like there’s a twinkle in there but I can’t seem to get it to sparkle. More. Boring. Words.
If you see conspiracies everywhere and are filled with a constant paranoia about people in power, or believe that lizard people are wearing costumes of human skin and are impersonating members of the government all while being pedophiles, then you are the problem.
If you think Gun Control is a “Mental Health Issue”, you are the problem. If you think your “right” to carry a weapon is more important than my right not to get shot, you’re the problem.
If you think a woman’s right to choose what happens with her body is an affront to your religious beliefs, then you are the problem.
If you feel persecuted for your beliefs, perhaps it’s time to re-evaluate what those beliefs are. If you can’t see that your belief system is hurtful, selfish or spiteful, then you are the problem.
If you believe that Jesus or God chose anyone to “lead” America, then you are the problem.
Yes. You. The person who will never read this poem, because that type, that type doesn’t read poetry. That’s the problem.
I feel like I’m just repeating myself, shouting into the void. That’s a problem.
So. America. It’s your “Birthday”. In a couple days. You’re looking…fat. Like, you’ve really put on a few pounds and are not carrying it well. You know that’s not healthy, right?
Really heavy in the middle there, and the wrinkles, wow. I’ve seen Egyptian mummies with better skin, are you moisturizing or using sunblock or just letting your neck get so red?
You’re pretty young as countries go, only 246 years old, which frankly, is a toddler in comparison to a lot of other countries. Did you know Japan is over 4,000 years old? They look great don’t they?
Well, I agree, being an Island can be very slimming. But I mean, you could have that look too. If you wanted to, but that’s your choice I suppose. I mean, if you’re allowed to have a choice about your physical condition. Metaphorically, obviously. Or is it literal now?
Why don’t you open the present I got for you? That’s right, it’s a box of fireworks to set off at three o’clock in the morning on a random Wednesday in November because you’re America damn it and you’ll be damned if anyone tells you how and when to set off explosives. Neighbors suck anyway, right?
Actually, USA, I’m not really feeling your birthday this year. Sure, we’ll go to the party, and have the BBQ and drink until our kidneys fail, but I’m just worried about you bro. You’ve been getting weird in your aging. Like, so weird.
Is something bothering you? Like, are you upset at us or something? Did we do something to make you mad? I mean, you don’t have to answer me right now, I know that’s the last thing you want to think about around your birthday but…
I mean a lot of people have died for you, so maybe, I don’t know, have a frank and honest discussion with us about where you see yourself going, I mean, do you want to stay this aging frat bro, or get a little classier and stop this madness?
A lot of people aren’t really “feeling” it this year. There’s been some really crappy stuff done in your name bro, so, people are pretty, just, “not into you” right now. I mean, I think people are starting to think Canada is a little hotter than you. At least that’s what I heard.
I am sorry to pressure you bro, I know you have a lot on your plate, it appears to mostly be filled with cake, but a full plate nonetheless. I just want you to have a Happy Birthday and to maybe really think about your choices. The choices that have a deep and long-lasting effect on us, bro.
I hope you find the time this year to maybe get in a little exercise, maybe try to take care of yourself a little better, stop all that pollution and litter and try to work on all that lard thickening you up so, so, so much in the middle.
Also, don’t do a keg stand this year. I know you love it, but dude, it’s time to stop. Okay, try to have a happy birthday. I’ll try to have a good Fourth of July.
Compassion is not weakness. It is a strength. Empathy is not weakness. It is a strength. Sympathy is not weakness. It is a strength.
So, it is my only guess, that those who fear our strength, your strength, are making rules, to save themselves;
From the cascading torrents of the emotional complexities of being a genuine human-being, that are about to be wrought upon them. In waves of dissention and objective derision.
A call to action, not to arms, a call to our strengths, and willingness to feel and see the world through the eyes of others, others not as fortunate or lucky.
Action through choice, action through serious consideration and recognition that every action bears consequences, seen and unforeseen, yet we must continue the struggle against those that view our strengths as weaknesses.
We, through these strengths, can create, build and advance; pushing the potential of our progress with muscled shoulders, that have borne the weight of history; our words commanding, “No more falling backwards. We. Push. Forward.”
A Minute with Michael 