A Book Made of Earth

I made a book made of earth
and took it down to the market
to see what it was worth.
And the old Russian lady
running the thirsty store
told me her quiet eyes
had never seen anything like it before.
She said, "Name your price,"
but her accent was thick
she had to repeat it twice.
And I sold it for a penny, nothing more
for it was bound by dirt
brown and bitter from the world's floor.
And the pages were of grass
taken from paths I had taken
from time, and time past.
There were no words, no story
just man made mistakes
told in their dull glory.

She put it in her window
for all to see
the display of a life once lived
supposedly fruitfully.

The Rapture and The Hatchet

Getting off of work late, or late in the terms of the working world, always leaves me in this weird middle void, feeling like I can't touch base with anyone. I try to call people, they are either asleep, ignoring me, or unavailable or perhaps raptured. That's a real thought that enters my head. What if I have missed everyone, they are gone or all dead, something horribly wrong happened and now I am all alone.

That was the feeling tonight as I drove him and phone call after phone call was denied or just rang and rang and rang. Voicemails picked up, but who really wants to talk to a recorded message of a person's voice. The last lingering moments of our lives recorded, merely fragments and frequencies in a redundant pattern, repeated over and over a thousand times. Inflections the same, idea is the same, and I have missed out. They are gone and I am here. Always here. Like the story of a the Roman centurion that was doomed to walk the earth for all of eternity. Like Randall Savage. Like Dorian Gray.

And this whole idea of trust is thrust upon me, some gift that I don't want, some sort of nasty tie that went out of fashion far too long ago. Why do we trust some people, and not some others? What makes one type of person truly noble? I don't know. I'm not sure why we can tell people our hearts and with others we hide our wallets. And I wonder where I fit into this equation. Am I one or the other?

Sad. Lonely drives past Christmas lights.