It's always dark where I come from

It's always dark where I come from

fiction
edward w pritchard

I followed the jets crossing the sky
East to West, north to south
to the serpent mounds,
piling basket after basket of dirt and debris,
we made a hill
but waiting and waiting Jesus
never exited from behind the large stones
so down the dark hole
back to the source we slipped
in other words
it's always dark where I come from
open the windows
clouds block eternity

my Epiphany of Lebron James

my Epiphany of Lebron James

fiction
edward w pritchard

Nothing is so sacred to us ordinary people of  mundane places like Akron, Ohio than to look on famous and relevant people in reverence and awe.

I had my epiphany of Lebron James in game 1 of playoff number three versus Boston at the beginning of the second half of the playoff game in May of 2018.

If I an ordinary person can gaze viva television upon Lebron James I will acquire some of his power, some of his mystique, some of his je non sais quai.

I could transcend in fact my ordinary existence if when I see Lebron flying through the air I would by his image entering the portal of my soul through my gazing eye acquire his success and uniqueness.

By my  gazing on Lebron James  television image I would be transcended. As Lebron James  was no longer stuck as an unfortunate in the Elizabeth apartments under the viaduck bridge in Akron, Ohio so too I would no longer be stuck in my ordinary pedantic life.

the spaces in our togetherness

the spaces in our togetherness

fiction
edward w pritchard

The spaces in our togetherness [1] have expanded beyond space to the dimensions of time which is dark, frigid and unoccupied. I have moved so far from your shadow that I see neither the cypress or the oak tree only decaying leaves of forgetfulness. The silence is deadening. I yearn to speak to escape my thoughts of isolation but the strings of the lute are broken and I don't know which direction to whisper into to send you a message on the wind. The pillars of the temple have crumbled to dust and the shadow of your smile points in another dimension. No longer can I sing or dance and being alone from you so long brings me no joy and becalms the soothing winds of heaven. Love's bond of invisible string is stretched uselessly into approaching eternity.

[1] all thoughts reworked from Kahlil  Gibran's "the Prophet" concerning when love was new

the terrors and ravings of the first garbage man in deep space

the terrors and ravings of the first garbage man in deep space

fiction
edward w pritchard

Please oh  please God of my fathers return me safety to earth. Humbly I pray for your mercy and protection.

I am the first garbage man in space. Away millions of miles from the unity that is the Gaia of all life on earth I tremble in fear that I will be the first organic life from earth died away from the protection and sacredness of Mother earth.

Me a simple man who toils for science. Using complex technology that I don't understand I toil at seeking life remains such as a few cells of a bird, dinosaur or amoeba that was once blasted from the face of the earth by the rebound of an ancient  meteor concussion using a sophisticated technology that amounts to a broom and dust pan to scope up promising space debris. Never have I or my scientific equipment found evidence of life outside of earth's orbits. Though earth has existed for billions of years and moves through space across billions of miles never has life left earth's circle of life.

Please merciful God return me to my home. Let me die in the place I was born. Let me fertilize future life forms. Let me rest in eternal tranquilly.

amen

his tepid mistress

his tepid mistress

fiction
edward w pritchard

As naive ancient thinkers
contemplating size of Earth to Sun to eternity
imagined a point in a point, earth to sun to cosmos
insignificant I now in your regard tepid mistress
me now a point in a point of esteem and affection
in silent blackness of expanding cold dark matter
pulled across eons of eternity circling your wobbling forgotten orbit

There's nothing like raking out hot tar to clear a man's mind

There's nothing like raking out hot tar to clear a man's mind

fiction
edward w pritchard

There's nothing like raking out hot tar to clear a man's mind. Sometimes as I work at my job of raking out drying tar at the parking lot of a new Mall or local business I use the time to order my thoughts and philosophies. I balance my local problems in my little life with those with nations, civilizations and cultures past in time and space.

There's a gentle odor of progress and reality to slowly drying tar. Inevitably, the tar will dry and a new concept is born. A parking lot for cars, pedestrians and children racing on bikes has been created from the essence of the tar I work with and my efforts of raking steadily and methodically have created a work of art. Concrete evidence of order and stability in the world.

The job is done. The tar slowly dries. Something new has been created.

Hear the firm strike of the hammer feel the nail enter the wrist

Hear the firm strike of the hammer feel the nail enter the wrist

fiction
edward w pritchard

We are supposed to not just revel in the rapture of the ascension three days hence but to quietly meditate on the pain and suffering of Christ on the cross. It was few long hours.

Of the unknown number of fellow crucified victims only Jesus Christ in name and reputation is remembered to history and has dozens of intricately worked master paintings displayed throughout the art museums of the world for us to remember and reflect on. Grunewald, Rembrandt, and Rogier der Weyden all left us masterpieces of art displaying Jesus' suffering on the cross and ascension.

Hear the firm strike of the hammer and feel the nail enter at the wrist. Experience the thirst, Grasp the betrayal. For a moment reflect on the ordeal of the cross.