The Ways of Men

Q: "Why don't you respect our customs?"

A: "Our customs, have never respected me."

Q: "Why should our customs respect you?"

A: "I see no reason why they should not. Devotion without respect is gained by fear and force. I will reserve my devotion so it may be given freely."

Q: "Even if it is never given? Do you really expect all of our customs to change for you?"

A: "Isn't it better to be alone, than to be abused by a spouse? The same is true for customs, religions and all ways of men."

A: "And yes, I do expect everything to change, but not just for me. No one is that unique. I await changes for myself and all those like me."

Mutual Respect

I was a lonely child and young adult. Now that my parents are older they want my company, forgetting how they raised me. I will not adjust who I am to meet their changing needs, I will continue to respect myself.

I will raise my children to be rational and I expect them to continue even in my age when I desire some level of foolishness from them. I hope they understand enough to not change for my need, but to love enough to provide what is natural for them to provide. That will be a validation and a pleasure for me.

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I strive to do unto others as I would have them do unto me. This is the same as saying, "I work at acting honestly." Realize this can be true, even when you would not do as me.

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The religion of man should be a comfort and a service to him as well as a guiding and illuminating light. Different men need different comforts and service. These also differ at different times of life. A religion should be big enough to handle difference.

“Jesus, the Son of God” say, if they cannot hear
but she said, “He did it because he loves Jesus.”
a thankful nod, that God rumbles & roars over flower
petals, drives the hot rod.

overflowing dishes crowd the hot table
cloth for napkins for slipped up spills

ripped up & honest beyond expectation
did not understand that honesty & truth are
not always the same thing

she runs off
if the pack exists
we should be ready

the pact is this
water & blood
sweat thinking

separation & unification,
nights blown apart
drenched cardboard huts
the city hermit smokes
only apple mint

conscientious hours
spent in little dens
at prairie’s end clocked
in & out, the fire of life

the game is forfeited to truth.
hesitant glow above red coals
maybe Thanksgiving always
make me miss the dead.

Little Main

On Main Street I was thinking about wine. Maybe it was because I parked near “The Winery,” but maybe it was just because I love wine. I used to take the unofficial wine tour of the Grand Valley every other week. I did it to get soused for free back when I was a real drunk. Every winery offered free tastes of their wines. By the time I had tasted five wines from eight different wineries, I eagerly wanted to do it all again. The proprietors never became tired of me, because occasionally I bought wine. And wine makers never tire of talking about their own wine to someone who cares about the subject.
In sentinel square I sat and wished the wood signs suspended by delicate chains were making their noise. An old woman across the court yelled into a cell phone. I refused to listen to her words because of the attitude in her voice. I joined passers at the urge of the concrete worm designed to guide the humans where to go.
Bodies sat square in my path. A resurrected torso fragment by a Mr. Meastas felt the chilling bronze as its skin. I put my hands on her. In the windows are photos of other peoples homes—a meaningful display of character. A much too lengthy process to detail, and I don’t care any way. Off The Wall sent me out the door when I thought eight ninety five meant nine dollars. For horses. That’s what I get for caring.
A clever name tag on the woman at Main St. Bagel made me chuckle. “Patience” in big letters was underscored in fine print with, “I’m in training.” And then I realized she wasn’t Patience and she wasn’t patient. I had a muffin and some coffee and tried to quit thinking about wine. I imagined eating tart dusty wine grapes off the vines with no hands, as I had done as a kid in my grandfather’s fields. Sometimes a wine can bring back a certain flavor I haven't tasted in forever. It’s a weakness. I sat and knew I should read Young Men and Fire and not just some or most of it. I sat in a window and worried about time, because I’m always some where prearranged. And there’s only a few moments left.

Exercise Truth with Questions (Fourth Part)

Truth can not be directly communicated by man. Truths must deconstruct into conceptions before transmission. Neither can truth be directly received by man. Truth is born of shifting understandings, finding fresh balance.

It is the deconstructed components of communication, conceptions, which have the potential to change the dynamic of our understandings. These are the tools of the “spiritual” orator. He has always used poetry, parables and the tools of myth to communicate his message.

Exercise Truth with Questions (Third Part)

Truth is restrained by language; handcuffs marring the wrists of understanding. Our deepest understandings and their composite truths are bound, gagged and tied by our ability to communicate. This is not a hurdle that can be leaped with increasingly direct language or stricter symbols. The particular duct tape we are dealing with is innate to man, it is in our tongues, our ears, and the primordial levers that make our mouths form speech.