Belief is but the petrification of speculation.

Idea is a fossil inside unbroken rock.  

Creation is a concept that,
by fixing the random mixing of time and situation,
denies the fullness of God.

Geology is born out of the same obsession as picking a scab.  

The crystals cut from cave walls could only acquire meaning in the form of value from dumb-founded innocents who confuse rarity and significance.

Hot Air and Cold Lead(s)

As hard as I try--on hands and knees, or straddling some 21st century conveyance--I cannot mop up the viscous fluid, the slime trail of despair I leave behind...It is impossible; this pollution is my wake.  

I am the wacky automobile billowing black smoke as I am chased through monochrome streets with monochrome moods.  I choke the air with comic relief.  But half the crew has asthma and are excused from the set.  I wonder with witless sarcasm how it is that this delicate hyper-sensitivity is pandemic with young, spoiled starlets and Hollywood harlots while the extras (on the streets and in the cars) are immune to this plague and breathing freely at least until they pickup a paycheck.

"Where does your hostility to the workers originate?" she asks me, and I stare blankly.  She is a psychologist and it is apparent we are far beyond politics here.  She earnestly believes that there are markers of experience (perhaps trauma even) that have constellated in my memory to skew my opinions from the righteous and correct path of progressive thinking.  She stands by her science.  

Meanwhile, I have neither the energy to contest her point by point nor the manners that might help to succour the situation, the clenched teeth of a disingenuous smile, the gentle waves of salutatory praise moving from my lips and my eyes.  Her impatient ears.  She wants that:  "I was wrong."  That would mean so much to her.  And I could say it--with phonetic precision--and I could mean it.  

We were all wrong in that analysis.  Our politics and our theology are fragments, Dead Sea Scrolls,  the Rosetta Stone, the teeth and jaw of a giant camel or the adrenaline-infused staccato of these tracks of a crowded herd of miniature horses.  But all the measure and methodology does not make for truth.  One persuasive, self inflated, forked tongued, divinely inspired minister of the lord can erase the enlightenment and the renaissance in one arrogant sermon that will make us remember...

The dark ages live on in us...in a chamber with rusty lock...in the back of our superstitious minds...