Ding dongs, Ho-Hos, and Twinkies lie
on the shelves forever edible
because they are bolstered
by chemicals that keep them
young and appealing to the eye
and to a satisfactory degree the tongue,
like celebrities pumped
with fillers and Botox
and saline solution
who will never acknowledge
they are well past their best-by date.
The one that ripples through my brain
never satisfied with that which lands
squarely in front of me?
And when the goal posts change so drastically
how do I trust which fantasy to strive toward?
is this the knotch which keeps me in limbo?
Never moving forward, but never truly failing
For how can one fail if one never really tries?
though the failing is imbedded in the not trying
as nails in an oak box below sediment
I’ve heard it all before
What sight shall I set my sails on?
when every sight has an obstacle
which herds me back to the safety of normalcy
The status quo doesn’t quite comfort me
but it doesn’t hurt me.
Yet.
Neuroscientists say reality is mostly a prediction.
The brain builds a model. A simulation.
An internal map updated by incoming data.
How funny that the eyes do not actually see
the world. They negotiate with it. Every moment
a controlled hallucination checked against evidence.
The brain provides six times more data
than what the eyes are converting into
electrical impulses. This is why grief
can remain visible for years.
Why a song can transport us across decades
faster than light.
I was thinking about this while watching
Questlove’s Earth, Wind & Fire doc.
How every wedding eventually becomes
an argument for simulation theory.
A room full of adults begins shouting
a date. A month. A memory. A shared
hallucination. For four minutes everyone agrees
on where they are. Not physically.
Neurologically. The map aligns. Hundreds
of separate simulations briefly rendering
the same world.
The strange thing is that the brain
is never trying to tell us the truth.
Only what it thinks is useful. A chair.
A face. A threat. A kiss. Compressed
files. Efficient approximations.
Like a video game reducing the resolution
of distant mountains. Meanwhile the universe
is busy being far stranger. Photons. Probability waves.
Dark matter. Whatever is happening inside
another person when they look at you
and smile. This is when you can
see the map laid gently over the territory.
Someone sings “Do you remember” and suddenly
everyone does. Not the same memory. Not the same
September. Just the same desire to believe
our private simulations might overlap.
For a moment.
Long enough to share a dance floor.
Long enough to call it reality.
I was that glum
sitting with Donley and Kate
on their front porch,
and I complained: “Why,
those sorry old whipporwills
over to my place
just say “Whippor-
won’t.”
“Oh,” said Kate,
“They mean well.”
They want to send flowers
and a card to the bereaved
but, of course, they’re also checking
whether the funeral is real.
does the moon whisper, too
when she is lonely in the silent darkness of night
murmuring between midnight melancholy
wishing upon glimmering stars,
to make her feel less alone in this bitter abyss
maybe, the moon is a braver woman than i
might she howl out into the dusk
letting the fear echo out, covering each shadow in the sky
let the sun hear her cries for the morning light
I’d rather be humble than wealthy with fame,
Than known by a world that won’t shoulder its blame.
I’d rather be grounded than living too fast,
Rather understand than keep judging the past.
I’d rather be humble than lifted up high,
Than praised by a crowd while living a lie.
I’d rather be filled with a purpose I trust,
Than stand on a stage built of ego and lust.
I’d rather be humble than certain I’m right,
Than speak without listening, lead without light.
I’d rather be teachable, welcoming love,
And never let pride pretend it’s enough.
I’d rather be humble than driven by more,
Than measuring life by what’s kept and ignored.
I’d rather be content and give my soul rest,
Than rich in desire, as if I earned this mess.
Humility changes the game in a way.
It softens the strong and lifts those who sway.
It doesn’t demand that its flag be flown high,
Yet somehow speaks louder than those who still try.
It heals without noise, it leads without force,
It builds what won’t crumble and honors remorse.
It bends without breaking, it conquers the wind,
Long after the spotlight has faded and dimmed.
No status, nor wealth, nor sermons spoken loud…
None of it matters before Heaven’s crowd.
Treasures and comfort won’t nourish your soul;
God looks for the heart that surrenders control.
Humility holds the key to a dust-covered lock.
When the doorbell is broken, we forget how to knock.
A teacher of abundance, an escape from the tomb,
A master at opening every locked room.
The most content hearts have learned something real:
Without gratitude, life becomes something you steal.
I may not have it all by the world’s grand display,
But I have more than enough, and grace made it that way.
So I’ll choose it each morning, in victory and loss.
Let humility guide me beneath the cross.
No hate, no anger, no “what about me?”
I’d rather be humble than who I might be.
July is a hot time in Phoenix
and it’s at a record high.
Super-Spring is Arizona’s
only super hero.
He’s made of water,
can control water,
can breathe under water,
can pretty much do anything having to do
with water.
Or any liquid really.
The rules are iffy.
On the hottest day during the hottest July
in typically hot Phoenix
Super-Spring evaporated
on his way to a crime scene.
With everyone’s hero gone,
Anarchy broke out in Arizona.
(Anarchy’s the name
of Phoenix’s only super villain
who was soon reapprehended
after the heat caused him to faint.)
