Saturday, April 10, 2010



If I were born to be an astronaut and offered the moon, I’d take it. At the end my days, I’d spend summers in a slow madness, getting lost in all the rust and the reclaimed jungle of the cape, trying to bring the moon back to me with remembered chants.

If I had carried the bags of Ponce De Leon, I would have urged him to turn away at Tampa, after the noise of thunder and the rush of rain, but before the storm arrived. I would tremble at the calmness of his dream and the lack of one in mine.

If I found the face of god neglected in a burnt ruin, I would rub the ash from its eyes for luck, then leave it unburied, for others to see or not. I would not look down for footprints to follow, but only remind myself, softly, to walk into the wind.

Mike Brady 2010

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