In the middle of my country, resting in between excursions, I ponder the probably and wonder what the maybes hold. I know that the future watching is a horrible game for the human mind. I swallow hard every time I make plans. I can't have the assurance, or insurance, or sure of anything-ness anymore. Not that I ever had it, maybe that I thought I did. Each sharp turn each dollar of someone else's money spent a claim on tomorrow that might not be coming the way I like it. It might be waiting to come, it might be coming tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Hope or Die I hear the bartender say. Die of hope says the salesman. I can't put my finger on the lie but than again I haven't had feeling in my hand for a month. The truth can hurt you when you want the lie. Lonely, in a crowd of friends, I cry the hidden tears of an icon.

"Ambition is not inherently wrong. It only becomes wrong when it is focused completely on the self to the exclusion of others."
Tim Keel
Jacobs Well 11-09-03

I stuck my arm up to reach for the stars and got ran over from behind by a garbage truck. I just want that taste in my mouth again. To pretend for hours on end and become what you aren't. To drive to be the one that makes the belly ache. The one that brings the house down to the place it wants to be. Whoever gets there first can help me to become better than they are but I will in the meanwhile slap at their ankles just to watch myself win. What if things changed.

Piles of nonsense sink the boat of my make-shift life. She is withered. She is broken down. If only the day of the champange bottle would return. When I broke that bubbly over her bough and the wind whipped her sails for the first white time. This make-shift break neck speed of life would return to the moment just before she sailed. The waves could be forgotten. The punishing storm would be lost in that stillness.