on the day of the 367 

california wildfires, 

lightning strikes me 

as i hot-handedly 

suffer the 367th editorial rejection, 

wonder how i will recover, 

rewrite, as sadness illuminates 

my life’s manuscript, rebuild 

my confidence, see my work 

as meaningful and necessary 

to the world at large, and my 

smaller but raging inner sanctum, 

which neons itself, glows, 

stabs at an intimate organ, 

a safe, hot place, space. 

art is life somehow. 

and the question now, 

why me, reverberates, 

booms in the gloom. 

and you only hope 

you will learn 

from the sorrow 

deep in the well 

that mostly transforms 

all hope and hell. 

knowing the only thing 

you can do is go on, as well, 

one foot, one hand, one moment 

at a time, that being life’s sainted work. 

and therefore what will be demanded of you. 

no options allowed. 

did the wildfire or the stab ice hurt more? 

depends upon the strata of the fire-ice cloud. 

the only choice, to endure, know that is what we are here for, 

to add our embodied voice 

to the strange, hallelujah junction journey.