Hunger has once again come back.

So, to the kitchen I take my walk.

Halfway there comes the attack.

On the table end my foot does balk.

With each new step intensifying pain.

From my journey I must take a rest.

To the nearest couch I fall and wane.

But I know I will pass this test.

The ache from memory will fade.

And the sustenance shall be made.

One is all I need. More is hard to do. Much is said in less.

I hate you. I love you. I need you. Be mine.

The past and the near soon grow to more, but now is few.

They hug and kiss as two are one.

To break the whole is sad to see.

Soon they part but will join once more.

Fate thus spoke: “Sole will win all.”

As the bell tolls, two are one now and for all time.

Oh, Phillip Head Screw

How I wish more were like you

Unlike the slotted that slips

In your groves the bit clips

Less than torx, more than tri-wing

Your treading is a perfect thing

You are not square

So others should beware

When I have something to secure

I will go to you who is pure

Drip Drip Drip Drop Drop

Here comes the fall of light rain

Singing simple songs

Rain falls on the top

Snakes its way to the bottom

Following a path

Deep down water flows

Through the dirt towards the roots

Quenching all the way

Drinking the sky’s grace

From tiny seed to tall tree

The rain has grown all

There is an old man in the park who seems to know everything. He’ll answer any one question you have but there is a catch: he will only talk to you over a game of chess. Only once the game starts can you ask your question. He will only speak when it is his turn, and if he thinks you are intentionally delaying your move, he will end the game there. Finally, once you have played him once he will never talk to you again.

I had a question I needed the answer to. Having looked everywhere else I could think of, I came to this old man. I found him sitting under a maple tree with a small table with two seats opposite each other. On the table was a simple black and white chess game all set up and ready to play. As I approached him, he gestured to the open seat across from him.

“Black or White?” he asked as I sat. His voice was deep and rough, but not unpleasant.

“White” I replied. He turned the board so the white pieces were closer to me and gestured at me to start the game. I did.

1: f3

He quickly replies with a move of his own.

1: … e5

It is my turn again and I know I must move soon to not draw his ire. I make my move and start to speak.

2: g4

“So…” I start.

Before I can get out another word he makes his move and declares “Checkmate.”

2: … Qh4#

I look down at the board in disbelief. It is indeed a checkmate and I have lost. I look up hoping to convince him to let me try again, but the old man is gone. I missed my chance to ask my question. I stay seated under that maple tree and weep.

The SUV is travelling down a path it has gone many a times. The driver had just got groceries and knew this route would get them home in about 10 minutes. The vehicle comes to a stop at a stoplight. It will be the first one to go when the light changes, but it will proceed cautiously. While this light does not have a left hand turn signal, and this vehicle will be going straight anyways, cars from the opposite direction have a bad habit of turning right in front of them as soon as the light changes. And so, caution will be used. The light changes and the vehicle start to creep forward.

All of a sudden a loud horn blares from the left. The driver has no time to look to see what it is but instinctively puts their foot on the brake. CRASH. The vehicle is hit and does a 180. It coasts slowly towards a tree on the side of the road. The driver hits the brake to stop but there is no response. They pull the emergency brake, and the vehicle mercifully halts.

Thanks to the air bags and seat belt all the driver ends up suffering is a soar neck. They stumble out of the car and are told immediately by a spectator to take a seat while they call the police. Reluctantly the driver does. From the ground they can see the other car a good 50 yards down the road, proceed by a trail of random car bits. They see no sign of the other driver. They get up and make a call to let their loved one know they are okay and may need a ride. There is now a chance to see the damage done to their ow vehicle. The frame in front of the driver’s side wheel is smashed in, but other than this the vehicle is fine condition.

By now the police have arrived on the scene. They talk to the witness and then to the driver. They ask what happened and gather their facts. It is quickly determined that the other driver ran a red light. The police ask the driver if they want to go to the hospital, but the driver refuses. Their loved one had arrived and there was ice cream melting in the trunk. More than anything they just want to home.

Diamond Ball worked at the DMV in the area known as the dugout. Every day she would field the same lineup of complaints for customers who battered her with questions. They would pitch a mound of manure served on a silver plate to her in hopes to catch her making an error and thereby score some points on the man. She would windup striking them down so hard they would balk and slump away. It was a good job.

Shortly I need to do something. There is no way to get out of it and no way to make it happen sooner, and so I have time right now. Not a lot, but some. Yet all I do here is sit and quietly watch the clock, waiting. I could read a chapter, play a round, or just listen to some music. Instead, I sit and wait, both dreading and dreaming for the coming event to be over.

1

I am a wanderer in a desert of words.

Each grain of sand is a single word.

Words from long ago to the distant than.

Some sink, unheard, unspoken for millennia.

Others burn my skin, not to be soon forgotten.

They flow together forming hills, shaping stories.

They ride the wind, letting me glance at their brilliance before they drift out of sight, out of mind, once more.

I want to grasp them all in my hand, travel with them, build with them, share them with the sky… and yet, even now as I reach for those elusive words, I feel the heat of the sun, the critics, the naysayers, telling me it is too much to carry such a burden as a voice.

Without a cloud of confidence in the sky to shield me, I feel compelled to let the sand slip through my fingers and continue to wander the desert empty handed.

2

Occasional on my wanderings I will come across an oasis, a place where a single idea has taken hold and grows.

There are many others at these oases, some are friendly, others are not, but all are trying to delve deeper into the water that brought them there.

I sometimes find myself peering into those depths, and yet I never seem willing to take the plunge.

I may see something whilst I look, but I never say anything to anyone.

Is it the fear of what my fellow divers might say?

Or is my greed, wanting to protect what I know?

Either way I tend to leave the oasis and continue wandering.

I never forget where I have been though, and always, always, wonder what if?

What if I took the plunge? What if I told someone?

My only solace comes in believing that someone else peered into those waters and has seen what I saw.

3

I have seen the end of the desert many times.

It is a lush forest where many ideas have become firmly rooted.

The trees grow tall and the branches spread wide, entangling with others as they do.

Their leaves are so big the sky cannot hope to view the world below.

As the trees wrap their vines around each other, strengthening deals, many in the undergrowth try to latch on, wanting to grow big as well and be seen.

Few are successful though, as the trees, deep rooted ideas they may be, often extend their roots up from the ground to protect themselves from any one trying to steal their ideas.

These roots can often be vicious, ripping to shreds the one that tried to grab at their branches.

So instead those below look for fallen trees, whose roots no longer protect their ideas.

Most of the undergrowth will die in this forest never seeing the sky it longs for.

I leave this place to look for a friendly place to be.

4

In the desert there is a dark, perverse cave.

As I peer in from the entrance, I can see a glimpse of shadows below.

Dark ideas, so twisted they would burn alive if the sun ever saw them.

Still, my eyes are drawn to that abyss.

Blackened shapes dance happily in the crevices, not caring if one should catch them in their revelry.

As I stare at the unadulterated expression of life I feel the heat on my back ever increasing.

It finally gets to the point that I can no longer stand at the edge of this cave.

I either must delve into the darkness, knowing I may never return to the surface, or walk away, leaving behind a part of me I know exists deep inside.

The fear of what I might lose should I take that plunge is too much, and so I choose the latter and continue to aimlessly wander the desert.

5

I once saw a fellow wanderer.

We noticed each other and knew at once we were kindred spirits, and yet we still said nothing.

I could share everything with this compatriot, but what if they took it and ran away.

A chance could be taken and words shared, our individual ideas growing.

We would both feel enriched from the exchange.

We could even wander sometime together.

Eventually, though, it will come time for us to part.

What is it that will make them wander one way and me another?

Will I ever meet another such as them?

I would ask myself these questions many times after our departure.

In the end we pass by each other with nothing more than a nod and I continue my wanderings alone.

6

As night comes to the desert, I hoped the lack of the sun burning down on me would have made it easier to shape the sand, but this place has become cold and barren.

The longed for sky has gone dark save for the individuals whose sight is so scattered they would not see a dot on the sand like me.

I try to build, however, since I doubt anyone will see it, I quickly lose the strength to carry on.

Instead, as the cold unfeeling air howls around, I lay down to rest and hope for a better tomorrow.

7

For years I wandered this desert, too afraid to make a mistake.

These time-blown sands, though, remind me they wait for no one, and having oneself drift from one idea to another, never letting any take root, is no way to be.

So, on these ever shifting sands, I will plant my seeds.

I will climb the tallest trees, reach into the deepest depths of the cave, and swim till I ache.

I will be seen by the sky.

And should the sun come for me?

Let it burn me to a crisp so I too might float on the desert wind.

Let me inspire those who come after me, the fellow wanders whose journey has just begun.