Jumble Jumble, I repeat on the bleak bank of the only River, its Fine grey Lines washing its grey Brick sides, turning over and over with the passing time. I Whisper those words again to no Reply, alone but for my Rhyme without a reason, slowly observing the passing seasons from the cloudy sky, a top Grade Pilot in my own eyes. Solitary and Silent I do confide, in my notebook I Multiply and Divide, my letters into words and back again, up and down from side to side. Time swings its Iron as it begins to Write my life in its entirety, my past and present and future, Given and taken Inch by inch, always expanding and always shrinking, perpetually Bigger and perpetually smaller, stealing my fleeting Height and age, years unfurling page by page. Finally, one day, They will come and sit beside me in the tall grey grass, and in the embrace of my mother and everyone else I will feel the charcoal Safety of the slowly fading sky.

Steam drifted up off of her cup of coffee. Crowds passed her by, diverging into their separate paths and turns towards their respective intended destinations. Her knuckles were white, her face paler--he was late. He was never late. At an adjacent table, a man with a well-waxed mustache and circular sunglasses lit a Marlboro red, and croaked a couple words to his partner. Her coffee was refilled. The square's traffic had started to thin out; black crows and the directionless began to make up a larger and larger proportion of its occupancy. She remained seated, shaking and staring dead ahead.

My first love had the middle name Grace;

she danced and sang, naive to the grey nature of the world I had already

come to find.

I broke her heart, and I have never forgiven myself--for her soul was never worthy of such a thing.

My second love had the middle name Grace;

she brooded and rebelled; we did it together. We fought the ugly world which we both thought we knew--but ended up waging war on only each other.

She tried to break my heart, but I was already under the protection of a numb sheet of ice.

My third love has the middle name Grace;

We met and have come to live together by such high chance and coincidence--yet the greatest of all might be this amazing pattern. When she revealed her middle name to me, my jaw made good friends with the floor; and while I have been called to Europe for the remainder of the year and she remains in California, my romantic heart remains ripe with fairy tale wonder. Her eyes shine blue and green like the sea of the central coast--and her optimism and maturity infect me, forging me into a better person. Life remains a mystery, and I don't pretend to understand it: I just follow its directions.

I walk, tepidly

rolling up a ball

of string;

my soles and toes

meeting upon it

in military precision;

its vector showing me

where to go.

My mother and father gave

it to me,

and it is the only thing

in this life

that is mine alone.

the subtle static lining the air

when black clouds begin to fill the sky above

deep in dark woods

orange, brown, black

distant flames

distant voices

in minor key

purple lightning splitting the horizon

butterflies in my stomach

and the presence of something more

I march down the sidewalk and sing and dream

Of a world where actions redeem

By a wooden bookshelf

Impossibility of self

Tears my perception apart at the seams

If you have experienced it, you know. A switch is forever flipped. In history it has been described as "going mad." Some consider it enlightenment, some see God, some are saved, some are lost. You aim your eyes to the sky, and step backwards--the grids and patterns of the universe suddenly tangibly visible in everything you see. It becomes apparent that consciousness was an obvious left turn in evolution--a gift, maybe, but also a sick joke--the illusion that we are unique, that we are more than temporary sex machines. The idea of self is absurdly self centered. We are all copies of copies of copies of some original spark. We put on clothes, cry, have goals and aspirations. None of it is real. It is entertainment--food for our egos. It is a frightening concept, but once you understand that you are nothing but a bundle of chance experiences and interactions with other matter, the freedom equates to the most pure bliss. Nothing matters in any feasible way, shape, or form. Walk a few steps down the road, and it becomes clear that life is beautiful. Walk further, and it becomes clear that it does not exist.

I can’t waste a word. But what words would be a waste? What could possibly be so important to say? I could speak on society, or the universe I have perceived—but what would that accomplish, and who would even listen? This hundred is no different from the hundreds before—a parody of self-importance, a delusional whisper into the crashing waves of experience. I love my mother. Everyone should call theirs more. Smile—dance on the street, buy yourself a cup of coffee, stop to watch the birds when they land. Yell your finite words as loud as you can.