not many a January night you can sit out, at least in this clime, in shorts, on the porch, ponder life, look up at the moon, take a moment or two, contemplate, deep breath, and just let the world talk to you, or perhaps the universe should it so be inclined, the moon is bright, but a bit diffused, and lower in the sky than usual, I’m sure there is a good reason, I just don’t care to know at this exact moment of flow, I sit down on my porch, well the steps to be honest, the weather is sliding back into the role as it grows colder and the weatherman is selling rumors of snow later in the week, but now? mild, just a chill, not enough to chase me in before I can take in this night, another night, I can hear a dull murmur of the four lane road not too far off my block, I imagine it is rather a mountain stream, it has that same quality of moving constant sound, but for the occasional sport who feels the need to test their throttle past my little grotto, or the angry driver jousting with another announced by trivial horns, and the occasional jet liner, another low roar you can trace across the sky with both eyes and ears, but mostly quiet…

I look down at my hands, I do not think of myself as a skeleton, but I quite am, I hold my palms against my face and I can almost see the sockets, feel them back there, behind my hands, naked grey caves we inhabit with our flesh, for a time, we are tenants, I look down at my hands again, remembering I am a skeleton, seeing my fingers as bare bones like sticks, only as I examine them, and trying, with my mind to build up all the fleshy layers from there to here in my visual field, everything that makes this work, how often do I even think about what it takes just to make my hands move, my heart pump, my lungs breathe, my feet walk, all in concert, usually, but more often than not a symphony of the unconscious, thinking about it, really visualizing it now, the chassis, the frame, the architecture underneath all this, makes every movement feel different in that light, I imagine watching the electrical spark that travels from my mind down the neural highway, from my shoulder, down to my hand, for each of these thoughts to translate to the page, as if these words are a direct remnant of my machine, a printing press of my brain, just the idea of walking, inhaling, thinking about exactly what is going on, can be exhausting minute to minute, no wonder our bodies can not last forever, what could under such strain, that daily work with no rest, until again, we become once more bones at best.

Anyone reading me for the first time my thoughts from the porch is a thing… well, my thing, although I truly encourage you to do the same, sit out there, wherever, take it all in, write, don’t write, doesn’t matter, just take a moment, that moment, trust me, it is worth it.

and sometimes I am just an old school metal head… sue me…