Ode to a Stamp

A window to the world
rests snug against
the corner
of my letter,
carefully positioned,
ready to carry
its message
to wherever it may
be needed.
Gatekeeper
of communiqué—
guardian
of correspondence,
standing at attention
to assure
safe
passage across all
borders.

A flag of freedom,
of history,
pledging its loyalty
to any who
employ
its use,
the conscientious
cavalier
carries its sealed
consort
without prejudice,
without bound.

Icon of truth,
emblem of relations,
it is you that tightens
the gap of the
vastness
of our world. You,
harbinger
of love, agent of good news;
herald
of request and regret,
you are liaison to
life-and-life, you have the
power to join us from
across seas
and plains,
through weather and
war—
where no one man
can carry on,
you protect the living
word.

Pinning Tails

Sometimes,
life throws you things
that not only do you
not expect,

but that you don't really know
how to handle.
That you
don't know how
(or where)
to draw that line
that so desperately
needs to be drawn.

Again,
"Humbert Humbert's folly was not
his attraction to Lolita, but
in his failure to distance
himself from her, knowing his
attraction was both illegal and
immoral."

It's sickening that Lolita
keeps rearing its ugly,
ugly head. And in the oddest
of places, mind you.

If only the rights didn't seem
so right...
but the wrongs are so wrong.

And I, in the eye of the storm.

---

Here and Here

If eyes are windows to the soul,
I suppose the mouth is the door.

Institute of Forensic Medicine, University of Cologne says

Dying in a head-down position
is rare
and autopsy may reveal
no morphological findings
which explain the cause of death sufficiently.

Functional changes,
mainly postural changes
of circulation must be considered
to explain the cause of death.

Two cases of death are reported
where death occurred
in a head-down position,
among them an autoerotic accident
with suspension of a man
head-down

in a sack.

oof

The innumerable voices in the crowd
were growing into a murmuring buzz,
but there was a visible silence
between us; though I suppose my ears
may have been ringing.

We had--have? some history I think,
but even anonymity has its way
of being healed by time.

I guess its no one's fault,
but my motto (no regret)
has taken a turn for the worst recently
but maybe for the better.

The glance, though, we each made
from across the auditorium (which was
quickly broken upon discovery),
told me that it was over.

"Sorry to say."

Death's Elegy - 500th Post

All things come to pass, and so do I.
I lament my death. But to what avail?
I dream, and lying prostrate at the altar,
can only fear with inexperience the fallout
of my indecision. Suppose Ligeia correct
and the death of the body is only a result
of the unwillingness of the soul to survive.
Then, is it my decision, my own self-worth
that has suffered in this ill fate?

But if it is only by will (disregarding tragedy)
that we pass through, why lament the coming
of the end of days? The bridge between life and
death is the ultimate unknowing, it is the epitome
of fear and of desire. No question brings us closer
to the enlightenment of the soul because no question
remains as unanswerable. The soul then, upon
answering the unanswerable, releases itself
from the body as the autumn leaves release
themselves from the grips of the tree as they
gasp their last breaths of summer.

We grieve the loss of life even more than we rejoice
in the sustenance of it. Is life such a commodity
that we needn’t celebrate it, yet all at once so sacred
we endlessly mourn its loss? Ceaselessly we preach
a life beyond life, a city of divinity so brilliant; its
very streets are made of gold. Faithfully, we commit
to this concept of ascension, yet insatiably, we curse Death
upon his arrival.

It is true that angels are terrifying. The position around
the throne of divinity can instill nothing less than horror
to the mortal soul that has forgotten such radiance.
The preface to the sight of the angel is always
“do not be afraid.” Its terrifying appearance, unmatched
in our realm, is an intensity that does nothing but serve
us with an image of our own mortality. Like staring
into the sun, we can only face mortality for a short time.
Why?

Only man laments his end to such great extent
because only man considers himself above all else in
creation. Drop, Narcissus, your arrogance into
the pool you reflect in. Leave it to the fish who, wiser
than you, lament not in their demise for they see
in themselves the cycle of all living things. Does
the snake mourn the shedding of his skin; or
the hermit crab his outgrown shell? Nor should man
grieve the freeing of the soul from body. Return it
to the earth, from which we all once came. No longer
should we shield ourselves in darkness from the glory
of the sun, but embrace the mortal light of the angels
which brings us life and which reminds us
of our inevitable death.