Be a friend.

You can’t throw a whole life away because it got banged up a little
The Classic, the back stretch, the late charge
He lied to us, he can’t see, he lied to us.

You can’t throw a whole life away because it got banged up
more than a little, the life of the race, the life of a horse racer

a jockey, larger than average, more well thought out than the average
a lover of the chase, the perpetual underdog, playing black, moving second
asking for more, not from a thing, but a living feeling being

A horse, a race horse

A second chance, or maybe a third and fourth in the this case
a fighter, not to fight but to numb the pain
a racer, not to win but to feel the glory…

ok so to win

To win, is that not the point?
In this world, the western world of competition
the likelihood of the win is gauged by certain measurable factors

Is injury measureable? Does a horse become a thing to be discarded?
Does a human being?

There is also the immeasurable, the intangible, the quality of unknown quantity
It can be witnessed. Some say it cannot be predicted
and yet, that not scalable can be felt

Who feels it?

Oh it can be seen by millions, and celebrated
those unlikely wins
They give hope to the others, to those multitudes of others
yes, they too whom life has handed a raw deal
that they might somehow, against the odds, win.

Sometimes just a gesture, a short statement
these little and brief interactions lead to something fantastic and wondrous
those moments, those scant resonances give birth

They are felt by the players in this grand game

a substitute jockey, on a horse that no one ever thought would win
a match race, these don’t happen anymore
because giants, the generally accepted betters that are measurable,
fall to those with great heart

Horses are amazing creatures, they love, they shirk, they laugh
they are loyal
they know friendship

George Woolf rode that horse that day
for that famous race. George Woolf rode that horse
for his friend.

That horse, maybe the greatest race horse ever to be timed
ever to be considered worthy to match up against a giant
ever to win

Some say that this story is about heart, about indomitable spirit
about second chances, and that is not not true.

But people tend to forget that this story would be untellable
would not be part of the history of this country
would not be what many say saved us from ourselves in a dark period of time

This story would not have taken place, could never have been real if

Red Pollard had not counted George Woolf as a friend
and that is why Seabiscuit was able to win that crazy day
That is why the War Admiral fell
It was Friendship.


General Semantics
is not the antics
of those learned
that leave out that reality is only just
you cannot use the word
except to decry absolute knowledge

To have sensed the material
adds heft to the corporeal
meaning to the portrayal
and yet perception intercedes
and the structure of belief impedes

As a member of a class, clan or creed
what you think you know
is not necessarily what there is to see
silence the mind and the eyes will grow
perception is a cage, observation is the key

the map is not the territory
the word is not the thing
all description is but a story
truth is found in conscious observing

life is a labyrinth
but who provides the cartography
when the accumulation of events
alters perception of reality?

as a group, we tend to agree
but only as a matter of efficiency
until the new gains a foot hold
peripheral actors, outside the bell curve
notice a discrepancy

to speak up, the individual must be bold
it is risky to forego the group dependency
it takes courage to point out that the map is old

this is then how we achieve higher resolution
with each effort the map is more detailed
brave individuals provide the iteration
and the group the absolution


the map is not the territory
the word is not the thing
all description is but a story
truth resides only in experiencing

Science says we can know everything
like a jet approaching the speed of sound
the waves stack up with each round
but when you drop a rock
does it ever really reach the ground?

this is Zeno’s paradox
as we approach the barrier
within the realms of thought
we hover like a harrier
the opposition cannot be fought

on the other side? a new dimension
together a new narrative
the surface shimmers, under tension
the membrane is thin
we hold hands and together walk in

a whole new world to chart
that if alone we can never be a part

the map is not the territory
the word is not the thing
all description is but a story
find truth in experiencing