Scribbles
Looking over notes scribbled on a note pad
In the car, in the dark, waiting in front of the
Garden Center at the Building Supply Store
I can hardly make out my own handwriting.
When I was younger, it says
What is that thing I left undone?
That thing that keeps me here?
Keeps me going to some place and time unknown.
I have been lost
I have been found
I have been in the Lost and Found
The Underground
There have been times
That I wanted to just disappear
Or be someone or somewhere else
But insanity follows you every where you go
I hear a call from some far off place
Sometimes I even hear my name being called
In my sleep at night
My old name - the one I never use any more.
I look at things and try to see all the way to the core
See the essence of whatever it is
What makes a table a table?
Does the wood it is made of have molecules
Of Tableness?
Are trees pre-tables and pre-houses?
Would they be something else if they had a choice?
Thoughts fill my head about Love and Peace
But do you see it in the world today?
Why is good harder than evil?
Why is seeing the worst in people easier than the best?
Why is it easier to be bad than to be good?
I think our questions have answers all around us
We just don't recognize them.
I want to know where we all came from
And where we are going
And what will happen when all is said and done.
How may things are there to say?
And how many things to do?
Seems like after a while we will be repeating ourselves.
Well hell, it's obvious we are already doing that
We constantly make the same mistakes
Do the wrong thing at the right time.
And vice-versa...
Ah yes, the old Vice-Versa
The Pete and Repete
The Heckle and Jeckle
The Red Rover of life.
Send us all over
And over and over and over...
Till we drop and our very atoms dissipate
Into the nether-worlds we emanated from.
But who wrote the rules of this game?
Who made him God?
I guess he's a do it yourself God
Play by these rules or get another game.
When I was young I must have forgotten
To do something important
Something that would save us all
And we would win this Game of Life.
Say the Magic Woid and a
Duck Drops from The Ceiling.
Groucho knew the answers...
© 2010 Philip G. DeLoach
