How Difficult

How difficult it is
to pull our eyes away
from the "all-important" events
of daily life,
and how much beauty is overlooked
as our eyes stare fixedly?

How difficult it is
to have faith
that the events of our daily lives
happen for a reason,
however unclear those reasons may be?

How difficult it is 
to honor the balancing act
that is life,
to know,
even as you struggle,
that for every negative event
a positive one lies in wait?

How difficult it is
when struggle seems 
to always take center stage?

How difficult this life can be.

Contrast

Earlier.

Casino snack bar. 
Cheap tables and chairs
waver in a haze of smoke.
Upholstered benches 
bulging and split.
Backed into a corner

I see him eating.

Feral.

Elbows like turrets

guarding his food.

Chin low,

dark marble eyeballs

rolling back and forth

in their sockets...

I'm reminded of the cat clock

except he isn't smiling.

Later.

Whole Foods parking lot.

Blue-collar worker all the way

standing in dust shrouded jeans,

his white shirt not so white.

The tailgate is down,

battered and bent,

two boys sit in the truck bed,

couldn't be older than eight.

Late-night picnic

spread out on a ratty blanket.

Mouths stuffed with food, 
chins high,

eyes scanning the star-studded sky

with that look of wonderment

only children seem to have.

My smile carries me home.

Eavesdropping

Cricket conversation in the distance,
all legs and antennas,
talk I feel but can't interpret.
Remember parking at work,
a golden kitsch prayer wheel
still turning on the dashboard
of a car next to me...
round and round
as if by some ghostly hand,
and the night's eye
wide with stars
feigning to blink,
but always staring down.

Graveyard Morning

Soft-edged objects in the graveyard morning.
Late afternoon sun shines,
burning white,
lighting the tips of my toes.
I play with it,
carrying it on my toenails for a moment,
then allowing it to splash upon the wooden floor.
I toy with wakefulness
as daily thoughts refill
the passages left cleansed by sleep.

Atalaya: the watchtower

I leave my glasses behind so that I might see. The trail is a maze of ice winding through Pinon, Mesquite, and Juniper. Climbing I send out grappling hooks of energy. Invisible tow lines drag me up.

The summit is mine. Alone. Wind freezes scarf to lips.

My place of predilection isn't the jagged rocks that afford a sweeping view of the desert below. My place faces southeast, the backside of the mountain. Overlooked. A dark blemish below the protective hands of a towering tree. Here I give proper thanks.

Coming down the mountain, the ice maze a toboggan run. Heel to toe, my energy spread wide, gluing me to the glassy rut. All my awareness resides in my feet. Power paces me as I dance with my death. It plies my attention with the setting sun. One glance and I'm on the ground, sliding. I'm quick enough to avoid injury, not enough to stay standing.

Twilight brings out the shapes; flashes fleeting through doorways at the corners of my eyes. We play and I smile.

Incognito

Power hides in unexpected places,
disguised as a pile of laundry
on my kitchen floor,
or a fan sitting on a desk
in front of a sun-drenched window.
It grabs my attention,
pulls my eyes,
begs a double-take.
Oh it was just
a pile of laundry.
Oh it was just
a fan.
But for one magic moment,
before it became a captive of words...