Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

As sunset ushers in the night we sit here silent in the light fading, embracing joyous rest that rises in the sun's fair flight. I ponder over what's been set in motion by God's usherette - of starlit evenings, well warm dawns, sheltered in mellow maisonettes. Not long after, I wake and yawn, convinced the sun's trying to fawn me out of house and home, to speak with God, face-to-face, 'fore I'm gone. So I stop, for His face I seek, recognize His sovereign seat, and listen to His holy speech - and listen to His holy speech. ~~~~~~~~~ Less words, more poetry. Cheers!

             In 2009 or 2010, my family and I decided                   to vacation in the French side of Canada, which was fine... except for the fact no one was capable of speaking a word       of French. Yet.       I  was better set in German. One night, in the streets of Montreal - cobbled in surreal silver linings - we took it upon ourselves to park our Chevrolet Suburban      in public parking.                                    At night. All the while watching the Montreal Orchestra play some Russian composer - Tchaikovsky, probably.                                  Big mistake. The public parking,     not the orchestral concert, which was excelle...

Writing notes on actual paper, the kind that rubs the palms of the hands, with a pen filled to the brim with smooth running ink, is like etching thoughts onto the mind like God's fingers on stone. Minus all the constant scratches and cross-outs, a bizarre map pointing to a deliberately               innocuous key to the most inane treasure.             Every measured mark        on parchment      is a covenant forming between now and then:     a covenant to remember what was left preserved for the hands to trace and the eyes to meet.      So I'm in a wee bit of an impasse: once I've finished writing this letter meant for you,            do I send it through    or keep it for personal use, my own memento                           ...

So I've heard that the difference between poison and medicine is in the dose.      I've also heard that food should be our medicine, the front lines against disease.    I've also  heard                          (bear with me) that the quickest way to a man's heart           is through his belly. Let's put aside the obvious      problems glaring at us            with glowing,              unsettling eyes - of the literal relationship of constant ingestion of meaty, fatty proteins and heart disease - and let's just sit back, relax: take this     on a more abstract level. Her words & actions        were saccharine: thick dollops of gelato filling a generously large bowl. It took more than a few years to finish, but I got throu...

I have no words for feeling like I've been abandoned for the fifth or sixth or seventh time already. I can't stand thinking about it, conflicted on whether I should head the opposite way from where I - I , not we - have progressed or keep going, pretending I haven't realized already that you care more for him. Even if I could pretend I haven't seen or even noticed it, my eagerness will die out without my even trying. All I feel is dying and I can't stop it from eventually laying there on cold, hard stone. Tears are fought against, but like Napoleon at Waterloo, I lose to the feeling that I've never been the one preferred for the eight or ninth or tenth time already. I am sick and tired of feeling as though nothing I am is worth the light of day. I feel stupid and insane for ever thinking even the least bit of effort could change things. Not even my words feel the same. I have no words. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An old poem from way back in...