comfortable

The leafless branches against the sky
will not save anyone from the infinity of death,
nor will the sugar bowl or the sugar spoon on the table.

So why bother with the checkerboard lighthouse?
Why waste time on the sparrow,
or the wildflowers along the roadside

when we should all be alone in our rooms
throwing ourselves against the wall of life
and opposite the wall of death,

the door locked behind us
as we hurl ourselves at the question of meaning,
and the enigma of our origins?

What good is the firefly,
the droplet running along the green leaf,
or even the bar of soap spinning around the bathtub

when ultimately we are meant to be
banging away on the mystery
as hard as we can and to hell with the neighbors?

banging away on nothingness itself,
some with their foreheads,
others with the maul of sense, the raised jawbone of poetry.


if i'm ever loitering in starbucks my attention is always taken by some group of young girls assembled nearby, and in my mind i play a little game called "Cheerleaders or Small Group?" A game not too different from another favorite, "Hipster or Homeless?" i was on the line about a particular group, but then they started reading aloud from an anne lammot book, each taking a page to read before passing it to the person on their left.

small group.

it reminded me of the days i spent sitting in a similar circle of similar girls but with way more conservative material--all fond memories, regardless. we were always reading relationship type stuff, namely, "When God Writes Your Love Story." no, i won't get all cynical on you in light of what's been written about me thus far. cynical is boring and lazy no matter how old or jaded you are. i just wanted to take you on an awkward detour to get to the next quote i read yesterday. i can't remember if it was from dan allender or from elizabeth gilbert (an unlikely pair of people to be confused, but i read from both of their books yesterday. & if you want me to be honest, the two really aren't that different from each other.) it's one of those things that will drive me crazy enough to actually re-read both books, just so I can find one quote. i've probably re-read the same bukowski book a dozen times, on that basis alone. i know the quote im looking for is on the left-hand side of the page. &that if you broke the words up into fifths, it'd be the fourth fifth.
& part of the sentence is in italics.

the point is, it told me this: it's much better to imperfectly be yourself than to perfectly be who you aren't.



small group tonight.