My Blood, Each Day

A certain sequence occurred today,
a circumstance arose,
to see my own blood.
This was a significant day -
it was not the everyday
kind of blood:
the type people see on themselves,
oftentimes,
as a result
of a scrape
on a knuckle,
or a scratch
from a thorn -
the blood
just below
the surface.

I watched,
nonplussed: the blood
inside
myself…
pump to the surface pump pump,
by the inner organ,
to every vital recipient.
This was the blood we do not see,
or rarely see,
if only through stories
told on TV
or a movie screen;
the blood we hope not to see,
as it indicates a closer
proximity to peril.

I was inadvertently
opened
by a very small,
deep
incision,
which produced this occasion
for me to see my own blood,
deep down dark,
red-near-purple,
and an instance to reflect.
As it was when it happened my frame
of mind quickly
grew astute,
and my response to cinch the wound
was swift.

Now with the barrier repaired
between the perpetual
inner circulation
and the anterior world,
I have the calm
once again
of my longevity
intact,
and a reassurance that
the wellspring of life
is within me,
receding to the interior
once again
where it silently
facilitates each fundamental,
momentous,
robust
day.

Musing #1

Bryant Square, NYC: a few years ago

I’ve got a head full of street fluff, city detritus…
worse than the foul wafts of charring meat and pretzels,
scorched and salted nuts, and wet concrete.
I’ve just used up the available day light walking,
trying to find a suitable place
to settle in;
somewhere to sit and feel the breeze,
watch the clouds meander over the city skyline,
maybe even escape the incessant traffic
without needing to be indoors; without having to buy
another coffee.

I haven’t found that place, not perfectly,
but there are people finding their own respite in rocking chairs,
people surrounding me in the plaza: all of us enjoying the
pleasant illusion of serenity granted by a row of shrubs and a few trees;
feeling situated; placated by the cascades of a fountain,
the children chasing pigeons - laughing at their imbecilic cooing sounds
and the squabble as they take flight,
escaping the torment of humans invading their preciously scarce
park space.

Poem #1

I generally exhibit manners that are mild:
I go easy on the sweet things; let the rushing rush hour pass me by;
identify an unbeknown bird call;
and I do not step in the potholes,
as I am running on the trail around the golf course…
I normally watch the placement of each stride,
a crucial concern to avoid injury.
Today I put my foot directly in it,
a large, memorized indentation in the road,
it was dry; I was sweating; the clouds were floating by -
so I made a different choice:
to land right in the center…
bending my right knee a fraction farther to account
for the drop;
an angle to allow for
a few inches more
down from the level surface.
I changed my focus that instant
from how I usually go…
and for several moments after,
I felt a difference in my stride:
the route I intend to run
around the golf course
no longer
regular.

What we're involved in...

We decide our own level of involvement in life, yet I'm not sure we have anything to do with what we're involved in. Where we're born, who we're raised by, what kind of primary education we get, and the personal capacities that education brings to the forefront is entirely out of our control (unless you have hippy mother earth unschooling parents who allowed you to choose your style of education, which sounds rather exciting). Anyway, our upbringing is generally directed by adults, and influences the lifestyle choices that we face upon becoming an adult ourselves. Our personal will seems to start kicking in during high school, when we gain more freedoms from both the state and our parents. We're meant to possess the skills to determine our own course once we hit age twenty-one, yet I believe we're born with the talents that are developed throughout our school/college years, making one's involvement in a lifestyle a matter of priority and passion.

Oil Boom or Agricultural Bust?

I've just come across a story/documentary called "My Country, No More" that is seeking funding for completion about the conflict of interest between agriculture and industry on the oil fields in North Dakota. The story is that of those living in Trenton, ND, above the newly discovered oil reserves versus those seeking to build a diesel refinery. The film apparently addresses several pertinent questions about how to measure the oil boom's impact on the land, the community, and the future, and tries to assess the human costs and benefits. The rush to capitalize on the oil, for better or worse, will transform those communities, that land, and should help the U.S. to become less reliant on foreign oil in the future. I quote the indiegogo.com article: "What and who are we willing to sacrifice in our pursuit of progress?" I've got a burning question of my own: Did we, as heavy consumers of oil from other countries, offer this assessment of their land, communities, and futures before we built refineries and pipelines in their towns? Now that it's possible to supply our needs with oil from North Dakota, aren't we obligated to do so and relieve the burden we've placed on other countries? If anything this film could shed light on the issue of how much oil we use and the predicted upcoming shortage; and on what the human costs and benefits have been in other parts of the world.