a spider web is stronger than a stone

these few things

they are related one to another:

pornography is an abuse of intimacy through removed observation.

defiling the sacred through exaggeration and inflation.

and from it, comes mutant expectation and fantasy.

what then, is the Notebook? Atonement? Love Actually? Titanic?

We, all of us, want to feel valued and loved

not for what we do, but for who we are.

But such a 'who' is elusive, because of course,

we are what we do.

I have never loved a stone for who it is.

modern masculinity is vacuous.

it highlights the strength and not the character.

and from it comes a kind of death.

it teaches the man to compete, rise, tower,

isolate and dominate,

all the while his right-man self is weighing the cost

in the shadow of silence

in the shadow of almighty humor

and the razor lies of comparison

and for it, a man's self is retarded as without water in the sun

until it is first uncovered by a girl.

but oh, oh, to uncover yourself

commingled with the drunkenness

of a woman.

the chemistry, attraction, and desire for a woman

is like a shaky mirror held before you

on a roller coaster freefall. you see something of yourself,

but for the gasping collapse of lungs

you may mistake that shaky falling face

for your true self. because apart from her eyes locked to yours, and asking you pointed questions for the first time, you've never been considered. studied. and so studied yourself.

she asks so that she might understand and own.

a brother asks so that he might delight and share.

that quoted, 'you too?! I thought I was the only one.'

this is why male friendship is a cornerstone

of the man complete.

and the liberation of a man to love his wife completely.

unrequited love is beautiful

because the pain makes you feel important, betrayed by the order of things,

and the love remains unsung eternal. and therefore perfect. unburdened by the decay

of infatuation.

remove desire, and we die.

this is why contentment is not true peace. it is death.

be content to sip your coffee and read a book for a weekend.

and a day, no, a week will pass, and you will kill the moth

in the window just to watch it die.

this is why old age so often becomes sadness:

when we become irrelevant, no longer depended on,

when our life is reflection not ignition, we can feel the wicking death

creep up our pant leg.

and why heaven must be something different than we think.

If the sin of Adam bestowed death unto the world,

and before the leopard lay with the lamb,

then why does the spider have venom,

why does the lion have claws and the eagle talons,

why would the Maker sew a shark for peace when it was so

meticulously pieced for death,

why is the decay of canyons the mark of their beauty?

perhaps his gift was the death of man alone.

and if heaven is eternal life in heavenly body,

it must carry with it some disappointment.

because eternal youth for the saved

would rob me of my memory of my grandmother,

her perfect crooked hands and white hair, the softness

of her face is only as it can be with the badges of time,

i do not know Betty Jo at 20 years old.

and the vivacity of youth and quick movements are not what I miss,

the slow simple gentle hands, those I miss.

but even so, how selfish of me.

a man has in him two possible foundations:

'I am worthy.'

'I am unworthy.'

and these two things will dominate his social posture.

they will fuel him in the thrusting of a new exchange.

when he is in a room of people, he will feel either

'I am energized to explore these new people and they are energized to explore me'

or he will feel

'I am a vacuum of non-contribution, and everyone else is aware of this.'

and the one cannot understand the other.