Wednesday, February 25, 2009


I've never seen a person die, but I've driven twice through Gary, Indiana. Both times I remember what I thought and both times I remember what I saw: the toppled playgrounds, the hollow houses, the crumpled faces of strangers vanishing. The strangers, they appear for but an instant before collapsing in Time; the time which tumbles and stacks all the while changing color and frequency. The time that is mine and the time that is yours. Will it vanish too? Leave with you and me, our friends and winter clothes?  

Until, Until, I'll assume until-- 

Love, spare this life I'll never know you--see or believe you. And truly this should suffice, but it does not. 

How can it be enough to pass on darkened highways? To whisper secrets across blue valleys? To drain eyes in bathrooms only to dry them in the same bathrooms? 


  1. oh ben.
    i need to read everything you have ever written.
    this summer i demand that we spend as long as it takes and read and read together.
    i really enjoyed this, more importantly; i really felt this.

  2. Yeah, Ben, I feel that I totally feel it after reading it once, and that I am just starting to understand it after reading it twice.