The $20 Delivery

It had been a long day. It was unusually hot for October. I was ready for the leaves to turn maroon, gold, and all shades of rust, but the weather wasn't ready. So I wore khaki shorts and a black band t-shirt.

I'd been delivering food all day. The lunch rush was busy. I didn't know why — maybe the capitalists were feeling lazy or just didn't have time to go out. All the better for me. More deliveries means more tips.

I stopped at the same gas station in the worst part of town for a break. It had been six months since I got food poisoning from this location. All the clerks had turned over since then. Whoever forgot to change out the taquitos couldn't still be there. Now seemed as good a time as any to roll the dice.

I went inside and passed the slot machines on my way to the 2 for $3 deal. An old woman with an oxygen mask was feeding her Social Security check into a machine, trying to change her fortune. A homeless man beside her was doing the same thing with whatever he had left. Sometimes the sensible thing to do seems senseless.

Before I could get my food, I got a notification: a $20 order. Can't pass that up. Two pizzas, less than five miles. Easy money.

I walked past the old lady, the beggar, and three shoeless kids with dirty feet outside the convenience store, got in my old car, and cranked the ignition three times. I was on my way.

I pulled into the parking lot of the pizza place and ignored a phone call. One way you can tell it's still hot is that the maze of spiders under the overhang is still thick. Moths, flies, and other bugs are stuck in a life they don't want — just like the rest of us.

No wait. The food was ready when I got there. Within five minutes I was on my way again. Another call from the same number. I ignored it again, but this time it left a voicemail. I wondered if it was the extended warranty thing again.

I pulled into the apartment complex for my delivery. I tried not to peek at the voicemail, but couldn't help myself. I have that text generator on my phone that transcribes messages. I saw the first line and my heart sank.

Then the call came a third time. I hit ignore again. Why answer now? I know all is lost. All is hopeless. What use do I have for additional confirmation?

The only question that remains is: do I head to the hospital or deliver this pizza? I'm already here. Might as well walk it to the front door and make $20. It won't change my situation, but I can't think of a reason not to deliver it.

Siege & Passage

Summer strolls are difficult because everything is hot.  The sun beats down—burning flesh, bleaching hair, and drying throats.  Salty sweat invades your eyeballs like hoplites in phalanx formation.  You can't fight back.  Wiping only makes it worse.  

The other enemy is the ever present wasps.  They outnumber you, they don't like you, but as long as you keep your distance they barely notice your existence. 

Winter walks are difficult because everything is cold.  The sun beats down, yet it has succumbed to battle fatigue.  If you march fast enough you can still sweat, but it's nothing more than a nuisance.  The eyes are still a casualty.  The icy breath of winter dries them, a torment far worse than the whispers of summer.  Neither season is at peace with the eyes.  

Winter would appear to be an ally against the wasps.  Prepare for betrayal dear friend.  Though they dwindle in numbers—they remain hungry.  Very hungry.  Winter merely gossips and arouses their wrath.  Finally, after all this time they attack.  Fly at you.  Land on you.  They would devour you if they had the strength, but they are merely corpses.     

two frozen wings 

a payment to Charon 

for safe passage

 

 

A.M. Walks

Slippery sidewalks are spattered with morning mist. A beetle plummets into a sidewalk crevice—deep as a canyon. His legs tap dance for the sun like an off-Broadway street performer. A choir of birds sings a dirge for cracked eggs cooked by calico cats. Winds whisper the poetry of rotting flesh from last week's roadkill. Children dance ecstatically over carcasses of frogs, themselves only tadpoles last week.  

    rusty gate won't close,
    knees can't bend—ankles frozen

    everything is stuck

Finding the Sacred in an Indifferent Universe: Beauty Without God

If there is no God making demands from on high, then we are free. But this freedom shifts responsibility. 

If nothing is dictating how we should live, then we have to figure out how to live on our own. How do we accomplish this?

We must lean into the indifference of the universe with our biology. Despite the fact that the universe has no intrinsic meaning in the absence of God, we are "wired" by evolution to see it as beautiful.

We stand at the Grand Canyon under cloudless blue skies and are mesmerized by millions of years of erosion by the Colorado River. 

We stand in the Redwood Forest — breathing in the healing power of trees — and feel better. 

We stand on the shore of the Gulf of Mexico and watch dolphins swim by. 

We see and understand our world as beautiful, as something awe-inspiring.

Our conscious minds choose to organize the cosmos in a way that is harmonious to our senses. We should ignore cosmic narcissism and lean into harmony and peace in our surroundings. 

The forest, oceans, and mountains become the church of man. Our subjective perception of beauty in an indifferent cosmos is the sacred.

The Encore

The back conforms to the stiff mattress like a corpse in a coffin. Eyes don't move; can't move. Entranced by the galaxy projector's disco lights—hues of pink and blue dance across the heavens of this bedroom. The patterns are so ritualistic that I can hear the beat of tribal drums and chanting cavemen—naked by the shore—gazing in wonder at stars like these. 

My eyes fall shut, and a shaman tip toes across a balance beam between my ears. He whispers, "Avoid the shadows with sleep." In this cacophony of pagan bliss, I don't hear the screams from apartment 14; nor the bullets ricocheting off the windowsill. No, my eyes stay foggy while the lights have their encore to the rhythm of my bathroom faucet...tap, tap, tap.

choir of bullfrogs

symphony of insects

I am silent