From the wonderful, safe, salty 
water of the womb, 
		 
we simultaneously 
search for the opening and 
are thrust brutally into the 

cold, stark reality called life 
	and upon emerging, 
		scream bloody murder. 
 
         We have to breathe. 

And in that act it is as if we have 
fallen (or been pushed or both) 
out of the 
	saline serenity of Eden's eternity.  

Some, by grace, recover enough 
to stop crying for themselves 
and begin caring. 

Others grow like octopi with 
tentacles reaching, grasping, 
sucking, thrusting, consuming, 
grinding, swallowing, digesting, 
expunging. 

     Octopi have to survive, too.

Some say that is too bleak a 
picture of the human condition,
too black and white.

We all have a bit of the angel fish 
and the octopus. 
	
Some say if it can be imagined, 
	it can be realized or already is. 
		Some read suspense novels of 
		international espionage. 
			Some read history. 
				Some read scriptures. 
Some don't read.
        Some cringe at what has been 
             and pray for what may be. 

If it can be imagined, it can be 
realized or already is – 
	heaven 
		or hell 
			or both.