December 8

THE WAY I DO IT

Cooking by smell, parking by ear, recovering by touch.  The latter has to be done this way; I cannot see into the black-box technology, which keeps me sober.  Feel through the resentments, pain, sadness, joy; find myself under a pile of rags with a match in my hand.  The many times the steps have saved me from becoming a human torch are balanced by the weight of the rope, woven from these same rags, that together we use to drag one another to safety.  The savory scent of a meal, or the glee of front row parking can’t compare with the tender sense of a sober heart.

Write bad advice on tissue and wipe with it.

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Master Mind

I was taught that it was my job to master fear;

raised in a religion swearing they could master death.

I used to spend all I had trying to create a master plan,

while trying to keep secure using a Master lock.

I have seen Master & Commander

and do not long for that burden;

in fact mastery is so much a snare and illusion.

Life is quite improved

when we each have an oar and we all row on.