Tue, 17 July 2007
Tired of being alone, you open your doors and invite people to press their feet into your carpets, drink wine, and talk about politics, movie stars, and the meaning of life. Alone again, you muse about how women and men long for extended seasons of love and how all you know of the world is asses braying, a lion's roar, garlands celebrating your house that if your philosophy is skepticism, no one can dispute the words you spread out on the sand under the sun; that if you fill cups with water and feed hungry children, who will deny you your ambition? that favors turn up in unexpected places. . . You meet a man in the road carrying luggage with foreign stickers, and ask him how things explode, to explain spontaneous combustion, to carry your grocery bags to speak plainly of plans, to sit down on your sofa to write a letter that talks about how hard it is to see the obstacles that lie ahead. And then you stand near the desert not knowing if the sun rises or sets, knowing only the time to cover your face from the drying winds. It's sleep . . . or . . .love . . . . or . . . God . . .you need. (c) 1997 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |