spider spider on the wall

I hunt you down

eight-legged fiend

and though I have nothing against you

pop you like the biggest zit

against mounds of bathroom-paper

your people must regard me a natural disaster

or a god

or maybe they see me for what I am

a dude who can't help but feel a pang when he throws a

crushed

broken

corpse into his toilet and flushes

an except from a conversation with a friend

it was so late my brain didn't work

and the wind blew and the trees whispered and the moon wasn't quite full

and i loved the dark

because it used to scare me so bad

and i remembered being a little kid here

so grateful to be alive

because it's just so damn pretty

this whole thing

and all little kids are afraid of the dark

Summer Nights

Time is later and the city you love spreads slowy away down the sides of the mountains that bore you and turns and winks at you with all its lights. Stars flutter like birds. The grand bergs above and behind rule this valley in splendour and you know that this kind of good can't last long. But you know how to trick yourself and forget about time and your cell phone and work. So when the wind breathes out through the canyon that is the world's mouth you can still grab a carefree breath. You can still smell summer. And you are happy.

The end of a good year (I go home)

This return will be an end to a year of much living. Around this time 300 and some odd days ago I left for Austria and since then I have learned allot and seen allot and grown close to allot of amazing people. And I would like to thank all that is greater than me for the people in my life. Because the more I see and the more I learn the more I learn the value of people and see God in friendship.

Drum and Circles

Our ancestors beat drums in celebration and in war and at the shout of a drum those same ancestors stir deep in our guts; they awake feelings somewhere between jubilance and agression, and sometimes both. And our ancestors aren't as "diverse" as we now think we are.

So a struck hide tightly pulled across a wooden hoop awakes the "primative" in us. Makes us forget our pride and dance.

The rain in spain falls mostly on my Laudry.

I can forgive the rain for drenching my clothes because of the beautiful way it smells.

I can forgive it for making me all wet as I take the sorted, hand-compacted, smelly, trash out to our Spainish dumpster. But only because it rains here the same is does in Provo; the water doesn't mind that it's falling on Spaniards. It doesn't mind that it falls on cobble stone rather than on the white cement to which I am accustomed.

People act pretty much the same when rains falls on their heads.

The do that little shuffle-run with their coats and t-shirts pulled all up over their giddy smiles.


If they're busy, they pretend that the rain doesn't bring that little kid who lives in the buisness suit outside to play. The busy ones resist the urge to ruin expensive leather stomping in puddles.

And when I'm taking out the trash, the rain makes me look up. I stare into the rain clouds gathered above the earth. The rain taps me on the shoulder and reminds me that people are not as different as we pretend to be; he reminds me that the rainclouds are much bigger than I am. He wets my lips and whispers "we live live in the arms of a benevolent god."

Spain

It has been 6 years since I have been in Spain. My memory serves me well, and I recall much of what I see here from 2003. But things are not quite the same. You know how when you run into someone who used to be real important to you you notice every tiny change, every new line, every new scar-- the tiniest pain in her smile; and she notices the exact same in you. To me this is Spain. She is the same person, just a little older; much as I am the same, but also changed. In meeting her again I do not claim to understand the full extent of her change, cause she is so much greater, so much larger, than am I. But I can tell that she, in me, can see all but the smallest change. The same hallways and trains and century old stone breathe in my grown-up self-- they compare me to my childhood.