Magicians

Any sufficiently advanced technology
Is indistinguishable from magic
Arthur C. Clarke once said

But I can look back
At a time without industry
Without machines
Without, even, the wheel

Desert Roadtrip

I drive
Windows down
Aircon off
As much to feel the heat
As to conserve fuel

The heat
Which makes my skin
Crackle
Like the way the gravel and sand
Grate against the soles
Of my boots

It was an asylum
In a time when therapies
Were often abusive
Or tickets to oblivion

I wonder how many inmates
Especially the most sane
Took this sign as an invitation
To attempt the window

Cracked, clouded, darkened
Brokenness obscuring
Images half formed

It’s no wonder
The broken me
Lashed out

Thoughts rattled around
In my own mind
Seeking a truth
My eyes could not see

Clouded lenses
Light obscured
I close them

The light may seem dim
And inaccessible
But there is always a path
To take me there

A regular pattern of discord
Symmetrically misaligned
Unbalanced uniformity
Irregular repetition

Steel, stone and sand
A land where no one
And no thing
Lingers long
A land to be
Traversed

A moment
Two girls
One very shy
Hiding behind her friend

I give my camera to a young monk
Without words, show him the basics
He steps away
Points my eye right back at me
And snaps a perfect moment

It occurs to me… Sometimes
The best way to see ourselves
Is to hand our vision to someone else
And let them tell us what they see