Say, "Me first; you last!"
And you've captured the essence
Of humanity.
This blog fazes fascists
Artsy-Craftsy
Creation is:
A thought made solid.
An urge humored.
A change manifested.
A status ipso facto.
A first act in an indeterminate play.
A reason to stay up.
An excuse for oblivousness.
A desire for more.
A need for less.
A mitigated disaster.
An answer to an unasked question.
A last throw of loaded dice.
A sunset viewed from a gutter.
A songbird flitting through smog.
A crab scuttling into a wave.
A beautiful scar from a painful wound.
A laugh in the midst of tears.
A final warm breeze before a blizzard.
A tree bent double by the wind.
An unexplained conundrum.
A denial of acceptance.
A shy smile, often unreturned.
A fear of sameness.
A patter of snowflakes on a deathly cold night.
A reach with a broken, bandaged hand.
A flair for unease.
A dramatic demonstration of the mundane.
A drowning of ego in id.
A reptilian brain deciding it just don't care.
A repetition seeking originality.
A long walk in a scenic desert with no water.
A cause to despair, ye mighty.
An opportunity to make the WORST THING EVER.
An attractant for philistines, trolls, and backbiters.
A deep bass beat from an unknown source.
A rustle of leaves before a storm.
A penetration of what is with what might.
A knockout blow from a balsawood hammer.
A surrender of dignity for uncertainty.
A half-recalled visit to a demolished building.
A terrifying ordeal, ending with flowers and champagne.
A second chance for a mathematical impossibility.
An equation: ∞ = 0+x.
A sigh of exasperation.
A lust for a nonexistent lover.
A stiff neck and a pain in the back.
An unheralded tear running down your cheek.
A hope for a hopeless cause.
A last uplift before the inevitable crash.
A bad idea.
...But there are no good ones.
Microbes In The Archives
Create to live forever, so they say
Heedless of the mortal wounds of fads, trends, tastes
(And the certainty of offending tomorrow with your yesterday)
Words endure, pictures a thousand times more
Don't be dissuaded by unpopularity
Produce for its own reward;
Someday, somewhere, someone will get It.
And the frozen shards of You within
Will rouse and rise again
Like cryogenics without the runoff
Hail, the returned Creator,
Without the grotesqueries of life to mar their divine name!
But a bitter irony blocks the way:
You will never be immortalized
If your mummifiers are mortals
Intent on their own extinction.
And a lone, gnarled pine
Twisting sedately in millennia of morning breezes,
Will long outlive the fools who buried themselves
Without first learning to breathe.
Better create for amoeba instead!
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