A trip to evening lake 
A night out alone in the fog 

A boat and two wooden paddles 
A cat and one thousand bullfrogs 

A boat adrift on the water
Straight out the black of the night

Not a captain or sailor or crew
A ship without even a light 

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What comes, and what goes 

Is the source of what remains 

What's hidden, and what's shown 

Makes the intricate seem plain 

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Ten times out of eleven 
Every moment is like the rest

But once in a little while
The odds become the test

Revealing us to truth
Planting us in our seat

In this dark and cosmic theatre
Our eye does light first meet

One time out of a million 
A miracle will play out

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Im scared of finding glass in my food

I worry that my jaw might come out of place 

I think about the inevitable twist of a joint with a *click*

I'm running and for a second I'm sure my hearts fails 

I hope this isn't a bot fly in my leg

The eye is about as soft as an olive 

A quarter of your bones are in your feet

There's metal in all the vaccines 

I'm transducing radio waves 

The asbestos has made its way through

Yet I'm worried about finding glass in my food

I sit, waiting on a mountain of lies.

The Earth begins shifting beneath what I can only describe as my entire livelihood in a bag.

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Every moment is a waking trance 
As the noise of the world pours in

Then at some very distinct point
All that information becomes you

This leaves a very big question: 

Which came first?
The inform…

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When there’s all but scraps and morsels 
Left inside of me

When there’s nothing but flesh and bone
As I'm steps from absentee

A hollowed and empty body of waste 
What is there left to give? 

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A living work now sealed
In anguish and tormenting resistance 

A year of spilling out yield
Only to crush down the distance 

Between myself and you


Between forever and now
Sit only a few more words 

If I could steal half the beauty 
From any of the songs of the birds 

And give it a place in situ 


For all of the rest of my works
Now laid into a lithified grave

May they seal into the future 
So unearthed, they one day might save

Like a love letter from out of the blue 

At this point in life, wherever that is for you, you must have heard of Blaise Pascal, and his “Night of Fire.” And if you haven’t, stop reading my nonsense and brush up; like, now.

Now that you know the story, let’s imagine: what if he died that night in a literal fire? Or what if that mythic bridge incident actually claimed him? No more Pascal, finding himself sitting somewhere between math, misery, probabilities, and God. No Pascal’s Wager. And thus: no philosophical conundrum to both inspire and provoke theists and atheists alike for centuries to come.

How many theists would have never been? How many lives would have bent towards a different moral path? And what difference, exactly, would that have made to God?

Well, it’s here I want to propose something slightly different:

Pascal’s Station.

The wager is usually imagined as a coin toss. God exists or He doesn’t. Heaven or nothing. Believe or don’t. But with a wager, a bet, you only need be concerned with the landing, the outcome.

A ‘station’, rather, is concerned with what you are doing while you wait. Because the coin is already in the air flipping. You don’t know how it lands, or when. You don’t know whether it was tossed intentionally or flung randomly. You don’t even know whether “heads” or “tails” aren’t just human words to gesture towards possibilities that could never be described here on earth.

But you are here, and now, and the coin has some time before it comes down to land (at least we all hope). And while you wait, you have to decide now what sort of person you’re going to be.

You can hope. You can despair. You can laugh at the whole thing. You can look for the coin - this is what I tend to enjoy. You can turn your back and insist there was never a coin at all. You can spend your life trying to catch it before it lands. Or you can stand there, eyes and heart open, and live as though the way you expect the coin to land, might itself influence that very outcome. Some people call this manifesting. Even without the modern overuse of that word, it isn’t quite right. The mistake is that it’s the coin itself, the way it’s flipping, or the air around it that is changed by our ‘thoughts’ or ‘attitudes’. Maybe it isn’t any of those that have changed, but instead you.

I call it Pascal’s Station. It’s not about the wager you make about God. It’s the station you occupy while waiting to find out.

Everything important comes in three:

Decades lived
Times being fooled
Ways you can be charged with murder 

Past, Present, Future
Beginning, Middle, End

Even you plus me makes us... 

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There is me
And there is not me

To distinguish between 
Seems impossible to see

There are thoughts I have
That I do not think

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It's always men. 

Dark, evil, ugly...
Probably up to no good. 

See men, they have it easy. 
Nothing is in their way. 

Except for when there was a cost, 
It was life with which they paid.

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What is the very last question? 

Where is the end of time? 

When is now, the moment? 

What, to reason, is rhyme? 

and where, in all this, are you? 

Or maybe, you stopped asking questions. 

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The Forgotten have been up north. 

It is here you must go, quick.  

The people need you there. 

You will bring help, maybe 5 or 6. 


You are the custodian of this venture,

Maps will be shown onl…

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The Pine is a whispering giant, speaking softly the truth of Earth. 

The Cone, a web of memory, spun up to bring forward the past. 

The whisper, a mystery from the beginning, telling the same old tale. 

but the Truth is the only one of these that ultimately can outlast. 

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Independence. 

One of my favorite things. 

Not because it ensures solitude;
but the liberating choice that it brings. 

The freedom to chart your own path,
can only mean so much,
if each one is already worn,
our choosing is only a crutch.  

We say no nation stands alone. 
We say no man should either.
Where somewhere between these truths 
lies the art of alliance.

Each alliance, a quiet question:
If trouble comes, would you stand with me? 
Every independent nation asks what first:
our obligation to you, or our sovereignty?

Independence should guide us, strong restraint, 
not a gesture to our ammo or our gun. 

There is a difference, 
between standing with someone, 
and being swept wherever they run. 

We have generations proving, 
our absolute isolation, can be a danger 
to the whole world rather quick.

But we also know 
that we have those certain friends, 
that make every global fire feel domestic. 

and the more and more we lose it, 
the choice to be our own defender. 
our wish to hold restraint, 
can be mistaken as soft surrender. 

Or worse, outright abandonment,
antithetical to the cause.
When it is exactly someone else's urgency 
thats what seems to give you pause. 

Independence is a peculiar thing, 
It is celebrated, until someone exercises it differently. 

Freedom has always meant, 
that despite those who beg, 
Your cards are only yours to be played. 

Perhaps the hardest part, 
is disappointing those,
who believed your choice had been made. 

Beware when you enter the woods
As you forage and hunt for a feast 

Where the trees might shade you slightly
The wind remains steady from the east 

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Some people will spend all of their lives
Searching for who they are

Some people, like me, worry even more
That searching will lead them afar

Away from your home, away from yourself
Until one day there is nothing more

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Hate is a funny thing
It can make you do about anything

It'll wreck your "values" any moment 
If it wins over your humanity 

It'll drive you to shoot at a church 
It'll push you to wielding a noose 
It'll callously erase entire peoples 
call them Palestininian, Israeli, or Jews 

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