CONFESSION ZERO

( The Galactic Free Press ) Mark:  It’s a figment of my imagination, all of this humankind business, all of it, each and every last one of man, woman and child.  Mother: And every spirit that is with eternity, crying out to you, jumping up and down trying to rumble a warning for your spirit and flesh. Your love and you. Your animal, lord and life, lord and death. So why are you encased with spirit which is not yours to carry away or to ruthlessly pawn, sell or trade, or imagine that you could begin to own? Mark :  But what of the spirit that is self? Mother:  You mean the spirit you were born from, the eartH? Mark :  Earth? Mother:  Everyone’s eartH. Mark :  Mother’s are the reason we’re here. Yes. Mother:  Mother and Father, but I’m speaking of everything and everyone’s Mother, The (H)eartH. Mark : You mean  Earth? Mother:  Why not (H)eartH? Mark :  You’re mad! Mother:  And you’re too filled wit...

Shaving Kit Fits In Wallet Dense and rigid, reminds me of Mankind and his thinking. Soon we’ll be able to squeeze war inside, between the rape and greed, in front of love and joy, behind hate and cruelty. What an invention, war… Roman Shipwreck Full of Wine Jars Found Their medicine, drained of time, drunk with power, dead from misuse. Rome, then, did burn, wine, its mortal elixir. U.S. residents, military ships move out of Hurricane Irene's path To see the shores breathing with panic depends upon which particular shoreline we trudge as our winked eyes witness her gaping tears flooding our use with the broken dam of love. We’re sorrowful and buoyant for another minute of joy to brush up against our garments, but the stench of melted plastic has us spellbound, like persistent war, famine, and thirst. Irene’s the latest caution. Her nod, our loss. We stand slack jawed, soiled, terrified, waiting for what moment she’ll greet us with mourning, howling down upon her way...