Fucking uncle Jack sat, eating pork cracklings. Petrichor filled the air, it was chilly outside. Crass? Terribly. Uncle Jack crushed a crackling in between his teeth, chewing, he cursed “Fuck! Fuck these things are crack!”
Aunt Kathy chortled, “They ain’t crack, they’re cracklins’, ya cuckoo”
the words can come mentally, easily, fleetingly – floating, waiting, processing, conjuring, to be possessed, when suddenly —
pen to paper, rigged, wretched mind betrays slowing, thoughts halt, hammering, stammering, sto—
some thoughts pop up instead – something about the political landscape, some introversive insecurity, words in a line that don’t make coherent sense, deadened, blackened — ugh
-n.v.
If passing involves Heaven or naught,
remember what you’ll bring with you and what not:
For a memory of walking in between leaves
hearing crinkling, enraptured in the trees
leaves a memory of careless loveliness
carefully stepping, enjoying the crickets
and other worldly beings.
Making being
a worldly being
restfully carefree
just you and me
without ever needing
other materialism.
Just you, and I, and our sun hats
draping over our faces
wasting our days away
wistfully swaying as the sun sets
and entrances us with blessed
views
Only allotted in this tiny plot of land
with your hand
in my hand
- n.v.
the exhaustive existential epiphany 
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