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The Socratic Method

What can you tell me about water colors? What can you tell me about the pulp that may gather around the bristles, loose with moisture? What can you tell me about pigments leaking into each other, clouds of sighing pink? What can you tell me about clarity? About a runny nose and the sound a CAT scan machine makes? What can you tell me about three minutes of silence, or high frequency therapy? I'd like to know your thoughts on time travel and the dangers of invasive plant species. The white car that wears a sweater of vines is relieved to finally be touched by life that doesn't shout at it. Can you tell me the boiling point of neon? Can you tell me how many more years of combustion the sun has left, stored away in its fat cells? Let's discuss the smell of old books and the film that sneaks onto kitchen sponges - I'd like to know more on the migratory patterns of Canada Geese and the one that gets left behind, does he have no one to depend on? A peace sign is a peace sign, no matter how long the fingers. How many shades of pink can we match to your cheeks on a hazy February night tainted by a 3 AM streetlight and the steam rising from a nearby manhole? Will the lurking phantoms be scared back into their dens if it begins snowing passionately? Will they show their faces if it doesn't? Will we remember this moment if it isn't scribbled down somewhere and stacked in the mind's bin of important things? Can you say something important? Can you say something important?

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The Owls Pt. 5

The Owls Pt. 5 I’m shoveling the driveway And there’s an owl on the mailbox. His eyes are closed, his chin tucked into his chest, But I know he’s listening. “I thought I had it this time,” I whine. The owl opens one eye, shrugs, and closes it again. I scrape at the ice, uncovering cold black pavement. I’ve been at it for hours. The owls seems to be sleeping, and I Heave a clump over his head. He’s showered in powder – He hoots and leaps up from his mailbox perch Flapping the tiny ice flakes from his little wings. He lands softly again on the mailbox and glares at me. “You’re pathetic,” he says. “You seemed happy alone. Why are you so desperate?” He is sincere, His head rolls clockwise. I lean on my shovel. I start to say, “I just want to feel it again, I want to be comfortable,” But a gust blows snow dust off the bank into my face. Instead, I wipe my nose and say, “I’m happy, but am I content?” The owl smirks. His head returns to its upright position And shrinks down into his neck again. I scoop a mound of snow and heave it Off to the side, where it splashes and rolls. An ice chunk splinters, A drop in the bucket.

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