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Cross built into the red rock hillside.
The red blood of Christ implied
in what was once clearly an ocean floor.
Long before humanity was even possible.
The notion that Earth is six thousand years old
is like saying the sun is a hot balloon.
Why does Christianity need to make natural history its victim?
Chapel of the Holy Cross built in 1956. Inspired and commissioned by rancher and sculptor, Marguerite Brunswig Staude. Design executed by architect August K. Strotz.
On the site of one of the Sedona vortices.
It’s raining diamonds on Neptune.
In the deep blue hydrocarbon seas.
Strangely beautiful and completely devoid of life.
Here on Earth we have a deluge of water.
Inconvenient, but more valuable in a million ways.
The queen of diamonds represents two diverging paths.
Which will be ours?
Preserving our treasure or
drowning in inorganic riches?
Here’s a window into my heart.
I’ve reached a place where I don’t need love.
And it’s not at all out of bitterness.
I don’t long for, anymore.
I don’t pine for rapture.
Nor is it out of a sense of defeat.
And there is no malice.
I’m mostly happy and free to just be.
It’s a big time money deal.
So they play the race bait.
To get the cash come rainin’ down.
They cyncially market with the color animus.
It’s the Irish boy’s brain,
they don’t give a rat’s ass about.
The head trauma pays.
The race drama plays.
They’ll have few years before
the hand shakes start.
I may have seen
through the fabric of the universe.
On the day of the solar eclipse,
I sat in meditation and felt
the metallic yin.
The moon cold and decisive as Ulysses’ sword.
It was the approaching night
that I would, thankfully, only witness.
But I saw it,
like a spectator in the coliseum,
the steel grey blades
that killed the gladiators.
63 words, I am forever free from 55. Now, it’s about how ever many words I need to say what it is I have to say.
Pearls to swine, but even swine have dignity.
And shouldn’t be talked down to.
Mud is not their fault.
The mule was huge and so in love
with the 35 year old filly.
I bought a beef heart to taste the fire
of the Verde Valley.
Organ meat is always served to the medicine man.
Tempestuous wreckage to clear.
After losing it
This is a 12 word story from the prompt “Tempestuous”. When I posted it to Instagram a number of people commented as though I were relating a real story. I had to insist it really was fiction. 🙂
So, I go to the local gas station/liquor store.
And I’m wearing a cap with an elm tree as the logo
and a tie dye Indonesian number with a pocket
(because a man needs pockets).
And I ask for a map.
After peeking at it, they inform me it’s not for sale.
I hand it back to them.
As I am leaving, the big dude at the register asks me
“Are you sure you aren’t a hit man, casing the area?”
I answer, “Do I look like a hit man to you?”
“Those are the most dangerous ones.” he says with a smile.
I’ve written over 500, 55 word stories.
Most people I share this with,
look at me like I’m nuts.
I just keep writing them,
because I love to do it.
Yesterday, it dawned on me.
They have taught me how to craft a good paragraph.
That is a gift unlike any other for writing prose!
There’s a line in the hillside that
they all scamper along.
A coyote ran through the gully,
quick and quiet.
Racing to who knows where.
The cicada sing like pouring rain.
It’s a pulse and within that pulse is a larger wave.
One song of courtship,
the other to mate when she has chosen him.