Tuesday, October 15, 2019 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ≗ ※ ≓ ∫ ※ ≓ ⋗
Someone should tend the blackberries out front (they don't need anything, it's just nice to think of them) and fill the hummingbird feeders while you're there, three parts water to sugar, very important to get that right. make sure to pay the bill for the dance hall, (is it still there?) on the first of the month. The neighbors across the street have my tool set. Try to get that back, especially the hammer. The nails don't matter. Throw everything else away, none of it's valuable. Except that watercolor from the beach, wherever it got to. I should have left it in the shed, where it belongs. Do you remember what he wrote? "I love this — I love making it — and finding things, all by myself." That's what I did today, with a few of these blackberries.
Tuesday, October 01, 2019 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ≗ ※ ≓ ∫ ※ ∫ ≓
A great ticking, whirring from the room below, where the couple lived, the one with flowers by their windows a syncronous vibration, the smell of oil and steam when you open the door figures carrying wrenches, instruments, lit by filaments inspecting, adjusting, building a mechanical beast, an engine breathing with pipes, hydraulics filling the room, running up and through the floor, the ceiling, the windows. Gears holding gears interlock, the door is closed and you fall asleep.
Sunday, September 15, 2019 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ≗ ※ ∫ ≗ ※ ≓ ⋗
Long ago, hard winter soil was overturned, and twisting roots grabbed at a bundle lowered to the earth. The roots whispered about it, proudly coveting a secret tantalizing, unwrapping it under cold winter soil, under trees that are home to the half-formed creatures in blue speckled eggs.
Sunday, September 01, 2019 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ≗ ※ ∫ ≗ ※ ∫ ≓
You hear something following you ― long, ashen, rain-soaked hair what do you want dog? here it comes, tounge lulling, as if it knew you it's entire life and found you hiding behind a tree. it curls up and presses at your feet, sniffing for morsels guarding you from anything bad. good dog.
Thursday, February 07, 2019 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ≗ ※ ∫ ⋟ ※ ∫ ⋈
The brink isn't the chasm, Its the last piece of land before falling in, and the first handhold after climbing out. It's the edge of an edge of an edge. Who are the most free? It asks above. Who are the most free? It asks below. Those with me, it replies. Existing so happily, Merrily so. It doesn't take anything to be on one side of it. But it takes everything to be on the other.
Tuesday, January 01, 2019 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ≗ ※ ∫ ≓ ※ ∫ ≓
Have you seen the wonderbird flying through the trees above collecting twigs for it's nest Have you heard the wonderbird cry out from the cold out among the frozen night Have you held the wonderbird with feathers cracked and twisted from the howling wind outside It only comes out after a storm has broken the branches off the pines and firs and simply carries them away to it's nest. Have you seen the wonderbird flying through the trees above like it did in the past
Sunday, June 03, 2018 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ⋌ ※ ∫ ∴ ※ ∫ ∻
I'm thinking I can see it I've almost got it — Ah! There! you see? There it is — See how fragile it is? Can you see the sunlight through it? — See how it jumps and jitters and — oh! We've lost it again. Oh well. ... You know? — I'm beginning to think it wasn't so special after all. Maybe you'll find it again, maybe you'll enjoy it, and that's good.
Sunday, April 22, 2018 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ⋌ ※ ∫ ≈ ※ ⋟ ⋟
Ravenous blood-red worms convulse on end in the murky field, as if boiled on a hotplate. Seizing the rolling fog that looks like steam. Making fleshy wet slapping noises as stomachs turn. There's few else around, a student passing on the trail behind, looking in my direction; but not at the field, nor the blood-red worms. They're gone, look back. Pick a branch, dry and hollowed. Approach and reach forward, forward, forward.
Thursday, February 01, 2018 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ⋌ ※ ∫ ⋟ ※ ∫ ≓
You're black water spilled in everyone's drinks Mad white water boiling beneath their feet Say blood water and drown our aching teeth
Wednesday, August 30, 2017 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ⋈ ※ ∫ ⋌ ※ ∻ ∫
Far away in the night sky past the moon and past our stars out among the oldest & coldest corners of the Universe exists a lone, small star. And around that star orbits a lone, small planet. On this planet lies a tiny creature, no bigger than a pebble, who sleeps day in and day out for every day of the year, save one. While it sleeps, it dreams of a far-away world where strange beings make music and tell stories and dance together at night and work and play together in the day. In the tiny creature's dreams, this far-away world has colors and sights and even smells unlike anywhere else in the whole universe. And on the one day it wakes, this tiny creature crawls out of it's burrow out onto the open planet to stretch it's small legs, & enjoys feeling the light of the lone, small star on it's body. And when it's time to go to sleep again, one of the last things it does is ask the stars to send their warmest light to that strange, far-away planet and to the strange, beautiful beings that call that planet home. In one of the many enchanting coincidences of the Universe, the number of times this creature has asked the stars to send their warmest light is exactly the number of times the stars twinkle in the sky of that strange, far-away planet. So every time you see a star flicker when you look into the night sky, you can feel a little warmer knowing you're sharing the light of a little creature dreaming it's warm dreams out among the stars.
Thursday, June 01, 2017 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ⋈ ※ ∫ ∴ ※ ∫ ≓
I remember you playing at the beach when you were five years old looking for pebbles & shells left behind by the waves The wind made funny shapes with your hair and carried you along the shore as the ocean glistened around you excited at meeting you for the very first time.
Sunday, January 01, 2017 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ⋈ ※ ∫ ≓ ※ ∫ ≓
You told to me to look towards the north From wence I would find my only course I would not look,I was frightened so Of the beings that sing from the depths below 'Neath the ice and in the black, they whisper behind your back Turn around and you will see, naught but the cold staring back at thee So you must never venture forth into these lands, For they belong to the shivering, desolate, sorry man.
Tuesday, November 01, 2016 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ∴ ※ ≓ ≓ ※ ∫ ≓
A Monster approaches my home, beckoning me to let it in. Whispering to let it in. A Monster approaches my home, and i know not what to do. and i know not what to do. It is outside my window now, looking in, looking in at me what shall i do. The Monster opens the window reaching in, for me, for me i have nowhere to go, nowhere to go It climbs inside, filling the room i am alone, i cannot escape the monster that is here with me I shut my eyes and cry i feel it closen it feels my face and opens my eyes so i must see this monstrosity See this monstrosity as it breaks my bones and loosens my blood so warm So it spills and drops and flees (flows) away from this monstrous form. "Look at me" it hisses, "look at what you have done" "all that you never were and all that you could have become!" i am broken, i am broken but the monster drags me still, the monster carries me outside, the window closes, i will never be back inside The monster releases me, drops me to the earth, i do not see where it goes i do not see where it goes. Outside snow falls, covering my body still (when shall i die)? the snow falls, upon my body still (but when shall i die)? i know not how long i lie, lying for night to fall I look to my home one last time, one last time before i die. There i am, back at home, warm and safe i know not what happens i know not what happens And still i think i will be warm and safe for all the time to come for all the time to come How could you not see what happens run away you fool! you fool! run away outside i rise, outside i rise, outside i crouch, bent over and jagged i approach i approach
Monday, October 10, 2016 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ∴ ※ ≓ ∫ ※ ≓ ∫
The wolves run heavy over my broken body their claws cut deep as they run to their cubs, their caves to sleep. What lovely creatures, I think as I find my nightly home. That bless'd, starry bed, look at how they roam!
Thursday, September 01, 2016 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ∴ ※ ∫ ≗ ※ ∫ ≓
Deep in the heart of La Valle Nueve, in the year 1640, on the eve of the winter solstice, La Negra fell--mortally wounded. She carried herself to the base of an oak and leaned against it's strong roots. Around her were twenty-eight Blancos--all of them dead--and all of them wearing the ashen robes of their order. Crimson crosses adorned their chests, made with the dyes of The La'Crocha flower, and sewn with great care. Their faces were turned down, into the dry soil and grass surrounding the large oak. A young boy from the small village nearby peered from far away towards the scene. He crouched behind a fallen tree for an hour before approaching. As he walked slowly to the oak tree, he looked at the bodies lying on the earth, white and red. His eyes raised slightly and he stared at the black body slumped against the roots. The boy looked at La Negra and La Negra looked at the boy for many minutes. Breathing showllow, and heavy, La Negra looked away towards the valley below, and the small village visible only by the roof of the church reaching above the trees. Her breathing slowed, untill their was no breath left. The boy stood silently, 20 paces away. As soon as La Negra died, he bent down to the ground a picked up a stone and hurrled it at the black body--striking it in the chest and bouncing off away from the oak. He scrambled for another stone and flung it, missing the body. As he hurridely grabbed another, tears fell his eyes and soaked his cheeks. His nose ran and his cheeks blushed as he cried out and cursed La Negra, striking her in the shoulder. When the boy's aunt found him, he was curled into himself, wrapped in his own arms and lying on the ground by the body of La Negra. She picked him up slowly, wiping the tears and dirt off his face. She looked around at the Blancos and whispered something small and quiet. She then quickly walked away from the oak, as the light began to fall beyond the western mountains. Never once did she let her eyes fall on the black body nestled in the roots. The boy had exhausted himself, and did not wake from his slumber until he was once again home.
Sunday, April 10, 2016 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ∴ ※ ∫ ≈ ※ ≓ ∫
Dance around the maypole young doe join the flowers & lights & singing watch the dresses flutter in bloom and the hair swim in the warm summer air. It is nighttime, young doe & and you lie alone on the earth like a leaf released and ready to sleep under snow. Are you asleep now young doe? Do you breathe a different time than the more lively and alive? Look! They are in bloom together! While you, young foolish doe, lie alone in a different time — after the harvest, after the end of all this, ready to sleep. So sleep now, sleep now young dow, if you do not wish to dance around the maypole, then sleep. & so ready yourself for the snowfalls of winter to bury you while those above sleep in warm homes in eachother's arms after the dance in the summer air.
Tuesday, February 02, 2016 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ∴ ※ ∫ ⋟ ※ ∫ ⋟
There is a measured degree of success in reading a book in an empty library with the ghosts of the authors as one's company. Sing me a lullaby my sweet authors Dance with me as I dance in your worlds for the time being. Show me that life isn't scary, isn't to be feared but to be remembered in the writings and photos of the day. Let us waltz and let us be friends without time to be remembered, with time to be cherised May we watch the shadows and the candles play out constellations of human warmth, in an age of mosaic beauty and prompt excuses for song. "So long as we are warm and so long as we are happy Never let me go, because without your arm entwined in mine, I would freeze and I would fall."
Monday, February 01, 2016 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ∴ ※ ∫ ⋟ ※ ∫ ≓
My last love stepped off the bus and onto the walk among so many I did not know whom I recognized not And yet what lives do they lead that I miss out on? with their own losses and triumphs are they heroes or not? The answer should be obvious, last love, like you like a tempest that freezes the skin and you remember not the touch of summer on tender bodies, in the wake of waves and seabreeze that so solemnly wash the flesh and not The mind, the raking of your voice, last love, leads and beckons to the end, away from all yet these others know not The danger of you, last love, nor I their last loves, shall we keep these secrets to ourselves forever safe: trust not the ones who reveal any minuate of your cruelty and you will walk past, like a tiger with enough meat for now.
Friday, January 01, 2016 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ∴ ※ ∫ ≓ ※ ∫ ≓
Look! Look! There goes the man, the golden man, the man so good at everything, See how he walks and the world moves, hear him sigh and the world cry The man! The man! He goes to work as the greatest, the greatest at what, you ask? Why, at everything boy! Aye, there he goes, away from us, into the sacred morrow, wearing the pride of our children.
Friday, January 01, 2016 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ∴ ※ ∫ ≓ ※ ∫ ≓
I've forgotten the words to your song, the one you would sing me to sleep with, like lullabies of a yesteryear plucked from vinyeards from across the shore a shore, a land I may never see. They tell me I do not belong there, the people from your home. "I was not born there," they say but you were. And I was born from you So why may I not return to the home of my home? And so your melodies are of a different key, your paintings of other hues, And yet still I want to listen and to see all there is because they belong to you. Share with me your letters, your dances too, teach them I am not so different so I may be like so I may be with you.
Tuesday, December 01, 2015 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ⋗ ※ ≓ ⋟ ※ ∫ ≓
Who are you? I am the one man battlefield the hunter and hunted together at last till Dusk we part and Dawn we meet. While the siege I seek for the harrowed soldier comes at last in the hallowed smolder of a time begotten and a people forgotten. And so all that is left all that may be found is the sole and weary’d beaten beaten down.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ⋗ ※ ≓ ≓ ※ ≓ ∫
We are clockwork you and I clockwork until the day we die. Watch us dance and fly across the room in a uniformed coordination Ticking so elegantly; arcs of pronounced stand - ard - i - za - tion We begin and end with a tick and a tock of the clock on the wall until we fall. But the (fundamental) difference between you and I are our hands. The hands that have given us so much pain the hands that skip and wane and fall behind tempo of our perfectly timed tango and oh! how that burns. Why is this? It is because you are the minute and I am the hour. We meet in the middle -- O! how sour -- four and twenty times a day and yet only agree twice (and I say:) (in our way.) You are so much faster than I, in all walks, in how you talk to others and balk at brothers and galk at lovers. O! O. O... A tick and a tock and then we drop. A tick and a tock. Let us stop for now, and enjoy what time we have.
Sunday, May 31, 2015 ⋟ ∫ ≓ ⋗ ※ ∫ ⋗ ※ ∻ ≓
Tell me about the times when we would stay up late to watch the stars and we’d feel special for having found eachother when the lights above were so separate and the air so cold and distant Yet here we lay, in eachother’s tiredness and embrace making time for one another because we enjoyed our company above all else. Tell me about the places we would go visiting towns and lights entirely foreign just to feel the sameness we’d grown the familiar, the lasting and unchanging. And when we grew old and tired, that’s what you remained to me--though all the fears and nights and troubles and stars strewn over the changing skies You were my home You were my lasting.