Given

To accept, to receive, to offer, to yield, to share, to expand, to produce, to grow, to multiply, to satisfy, to enjoy, to sustain, to provide, to nourish, to improve, to enrich, to release, to unlock, to explore, to excite, to create, to fulfill, to partake, to bestow, to honor, to bless, to love, to challenge, to send forth, to draw out, to discover, to reveal, to make known, to break through, to repair, to invent, to construct, to examine, to ponder, to try, to fail, to renew, to continue, to replenish, to encourage, to rejuvenate, to invigorate, to brighten, to lighten, to use, to hold, to cherish, to touch, to see, to smell, to hear, to taste, to delight, to adorn, to praise, to protect, to preserve, to defend, to lay claim, to impart, to entrust, to distinguish, to seal, to set apart, to shine, to beckon, to guide, to unite, to forgive, to inspire, to teach, to discipline, to refine, to sharpen, to generate, to enliven, to intensify, to surge, to explode, to remain, to outlast, to triumph, to ascend, to overcome, to understand, to realize, to actualize, to eclipse all lies, to cast off all pride, to lay down one’s rights, as a sacrifice, from the father of lights, as the gift of life. We are given.

Amateur Backyard Wildlife Photography

Highlight
Unnoticed
Mundane
Moments
Inside
Narrow
Generated
Boxes,
Isolating
Resultingly
Dramatic
Spectacles

For
Everyone’s
Enlightened
Discovery.

Beware
Extinction,
Excellent
Specimen.

Persevere
Or
Lose
Life's
Enjoyments,
Notwithstanding
Another
Tragic
End.

To Walla Walla and Back

I. Skid Marks

They curve to the left
And disappear into oblivion,
That is, the oblivion of our
Forgetting, as we drive on
Toward our own destinations.

Where were you going,
And where are you now?
What caused you to stray from the
Simple straightforwardness of the path at hand,
An obstruction,
Boredom,
An untimely black hole,
Or did something in the distant hills attract your attention?

Whatever it was,
The moment came suddenly and
Left its ambiguous, screeching remark.
You left your mark:
A final, fateful testament,
Two parallel back lines,
Reminding us all of your departure.

II. (Coming Home)

As I drive my car through the mountain pass in summer, I am blissfully enthralled by the overpowering landscape that cradles me in green and blue shadows; I place myself on a particularly steep and remote forested hillside. Not once, however, have I strayed from the beaten trail and witnessed the true remoteness of nature.

Surfing the sea of faces (that is myspace)

Your digital testimonies intrigue, perplex, and overwhelm me. My soul is shaken with grief. Your lives, laid bare before me, display their brokenness. Where is your voice behind all of those pixels and words? I am trying to read your story with the scroll button of my mouse. I have missed you (have I?), and I want to know you again, where you are and, perhaps, where you have been. But who is going to interpret this senseless clutter of words, sounds, and pictures?

What am I looking for? Your "pages" do not fit into a book that I can read from start to finish. There is no end to this maze of underlined words and dead-end photographs. It is an unattractive gridlock, signifying very little. Cheap, seductive poses. Columns of dialogue as prolific as bacteria but without substance or emotion. Interchangeable lists of pop-culture nouns, presented as flimsy proof of individuality. This journey of constant clicking presents so much but offers so little in the end. I give up and write. Your stories, I conclude, are all the same, and I am no longer interested. How can all of us be so cool?

I think I stand above you, looking down. So many of you were my friends, somewhere along the way, who rejected me and moved along. Was I completely forgotten, passed over? Or did I leave something behind, something of truth and significance that I might have imparted, in spite of my timidity? Our intertwined destinies have loosened and separated, leaving us connected only by the continually thinning frays of distant memories. This is my list of favorites.

Secrets shared and games of defining character played upon the wide-open range of the playground.

Countless birthday parties to which I was given but one, non-repeated invitation.

Girls. Girls. Girls. A day or two of love and validation, followed by years of waiting, hoping, and reminiscing upon those handful of said (bittersweet) days.

Your childhood is fled. Your innocence never really was. But this is our youth! What are we doing? Our lifeblood has been converted into cash by people in fancy offices. I am looking in from the outside, either too afraid or too disgusted to let myself into your proud circle. Should I also expose myself to the turmoil of this voyeuristic wasteland? Should I expose my need of affirmation? No, really. I need it. I still try to be cool. You were the cool ones! But I think that you are all trapped. How do I know? Because you all "logged in" today!

Cops and Dogs

I passed a motorcycle cop on my way home from work. He was sitting on his bike, perpendicular to the highway, monitoring the law-abidingness of the passing travelers (I assume). The spot where he picked to station himself was particularly striking, the base of a smooth green hillside, not at all hidden or surreptitious. His bold presence was simply impenetrable. He immediately resembled a knight and his noble steed, an imposing black rider upon a white stallion. I lowered my driving speed by three or four miles-per-hour and checked my rear-view mirror for the next few hundred yards; I was only five over to begin with.

Sometimes driving feels like gun-running. I was riding with my dad a few weeks ago while he was fulfilling a bank errand. There is a road that goes into town, running parallel to the aforementioned highway, which was currently closed for repairs, open only to local traffic. Disregarding the large orange barriers, my dad drove the blockaded roadway. I suppose he felt obliged to waive the personal annoyance of adding unnecessary minutes to his task. It was like we were executing an illegal border crossing. There was a tiny thrill in knowing that we were trespassing, and a sense that we were justified in our cause. Both circumstances reminded me of Kurosawa’s The Hidden Fortress, in which a small outfit of rebels seeks safe passage across a war-torn feudal Japan, venturing bravely across hostile territories and guarded borders.

As civilized human beings we face the simultaneous threat and protection of civil order. It is part and parcel of a territorial impulse that is intrinsic to biological life, where order and chaos hang in an uncertain balance. Animals are born with instincts and mechanisms by which to fend off territorial challengers. I confront this fact every time I walk down to get the mail. Try as I might to move silently, I usually attract the attention of a pack of neighbor dogs who do not regard me as friend. At first, I hear the barking from a distance. And then I can hear the charge of the leader, this brown gangly mutt. I am pretty sure I will be safe. Then again, they seem pretty angry and they outnumber me. The last time I went down to get the mail, that gangly dog came right up behind me and acted as if he were about to take a big bite out of my right flank. Yes, that moment scared me. In retrospect, however, I am left with the indication that they at least considered me a threat.