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a perfect imperfection

a perfect imperfection

2.18.2025

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book of jobe
Feb 18, 2025
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a perfect imperfection
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I believe the poem is a sacramental act, pure devotion to whatever may be revealed only through the music of intuition. The dance of the intellect, the dance of wild imagination, illuminates what cannot otherwise be known.

Sam Hamill


crescent moon over black building
Photo by Dhaya Eddine Bentaleb on Unsplash


California is cold tonight, and it feels
like my friends are all a thousand miles
away. The clouds are full, it will rain
before bedtime. From the stove, the aroma
of the chicken I am baking fills the room,
forcing the loneliness outside. Good riddance.
From the window I can watch the loneliness
move down the dark street, walking
with head down, hood up, and hands in pockets.

jobe


My shadow serves as the friend I crave.

Anna Akhmatova


You've read the stories.

A family moves and leaves the dog by mistake, and goodness gracious, that dog somehow walks two thousand miles and finds them in Oregon.

A man sees a seagull that walks funny instead of flying, and picks up the bird to find that binding the bird's wing are the Army dog tags and chain he lost five years before.

A man and a woman fall in love quickly, not knowing they are twins that were given up for adoption, the truth revealed when they died on the same day decades later.

What goes around, comes around; you've heard that. Life is often a big circle, taking you back to where you began, or bringing back what was lost, given up on, forgotten.

That dog just picked a direction and walked. Something drew that bird to the dog tags, and the man and woman already loved each other and they just didn't know it.

The stage where you perform is larger than you may know. Roll the dice, take a chance, bet it all, bet every last dime. Not every time, my friend, but once in a while just do it.

jobe


I'm afraid, based on my own experience, that fascism will come to America in the name of national security.

Jim Garrison


after dinner
standing outside in a light rain
I am connected to all creation
a perfect imperfection

jobe


A poem by Nanao Sakaki:

It’s Nanao or never.

Soil for the legs
Axe for the hands
Flower for the eyes
Bird for the ears
Mushroom for the nose
Smile for the mouth
Song for the lungs
Sweat for the skin
Wind for the mind.

Nanao Sakaki, 1923-2008 CE

This concludes the part of this post for free subscribers. You are appreciated. I hope you will at some point consider becoming a paid subscriber, so that I may have beans with my rice. $5 a month keeps beans in the pantry. Thanks, jobe.

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