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July 23rd, 2002

days of not quite open hand

The traffic on worked-rather-late evenings moves in that "back from the franchise restaurant" serenity rather than in that "got to get home, filled with road rage from work" anguish. The fairly full moon glows a bit brighter when viewed after too long an evening away from home. One worries far less about what television played, because the best shows ran an hour or so before one's arrival. One indulges in a late night movie like Midway, appreciating once again how noble Admiral Yamamoto plays in that film, but one feels inadequately hooked to wish to finish the entire movie. War movies provide a puzzle to solve in any event; nothing horrifies one more than armed conflict, and yet war movies frequently allow for interesting viewing. Mildly frightening dreams involving warring creatures almost entirely similar to the re-run of Star Trek: Voyager enliven the deep midnights of a worked-late-night. Perhaps when one has spent all one's imagination at the office, borrowed sci fi dreams provide a "last best hope for peace".

and when I saw the heavens open

I drove my dull white unwashed car
down undistinguished country roads,
past paper signs pasted on stakes which
advertised sprawling new brick homes built, and
new roads with names like "Gryphon Meadow",
past horses grazing tamely on prairie remnants.

The sky was blue with weather channel brilliance,
as the radio buzzed--flash flood, bent fender.
I turned beside a convenience store,
past an abandoned nursery, a closed barbecue,
onto a stretch of straight farm-to-market road.

Before me, just ahead, the clouds parted,
as if some religious painting come to life,
a burst of sunlight, a new revelation,
pierced through clouds of blue and purple,
pierced the empty sky and endless drizzle,
landed, as if a targeted laser beam,
illuminating a blue junker truck in a field,
as if it were a saint, but no voice of God spoke.
I drove home, alone, under dark clouds.