Last night

we un-stacked our memories. We recited them in un-alphabetical order, those moments that make our hearts sparkle.

Life is tough

Adventure is the product of a curious mind, and itchy feet.
It is forgoing plans, and simply going.
It is enjoying each moment you have RIGHT NOW, and not looking back.
It is facing into the wind, facing the sun, facing your life-and then diving in full of spirit and no regrets.
And if we try, our entire lives can be an adventure.
Whether through little things or big things, adventure comes with blood and lungs and hearts; it's tied into the package of living, and hopefully we may sprout wings and indulge ourselves in it.

good grief, what is this? poetry?

Hair and wine, happy in le sublime.
Waste and water, mix in uniform shapes
to be greedied into the mouths of the ignorant gluttons.
Gross and detestable hunger, pumping forth brutality
and the gnashing of teeth.
Flies dining and children dying. Or the reverse, more likely.
One happens, thus the other happens.
Things fall in succession, and last of all are the flies. Idiots
with no brains,
who live to carry on the race,
and who die in an irritating buzz; catapult to the earth.
Life given to another generation.
A mother’s spirit passed onto an unknowing child, a happy heart torn by darkness;
a baby’s wail forgotten in blind pain.
A museum of lives, wrenched from the fingers of the owners.
A cemetery of sorrow, the hospital, the jail, the jungle, the novel. With all that is broken,
yet the light is warm,
and the cold is overshadowed by cliffs
of overarching hope.
And the point is this, that pain and happiness are one,
but flipped, like a coin,
by the circumstantial evidence.
And whether the light is orange or blue, exertions and emotions are fingered and felt,
like the wind and the storm.
From body bags comes life.
Thus, thus, the end all.