O - Brother.

The day wasn't cold, and a young girl sat at her desk with her hair tied back completely, munching on five hard boiled eggs. She glanced toward her fish bowl and noticed the beta was hiding underneath his castle. With the reassuring thought that if he was dead he'd be visibly floating, she began to practice her French. Down the hall the radio was blaring a hazy song that fought through the static and brought her back to older times. A temporary realization struck her hard and her eyes began to well up, but no further progress was made. A sinking boat riled her stomach; she thought longingly of the full bottle in the pantry. The girl left the room.

Sitting on a bench out front during that coveted portion of the day, twilight, the girl reached for her soft pack of cigarettes and lit one with the last match in the match book. She began to read, inhaling deeply. One soft flurry of ash drifted in front of her face and she gazed at it in slow motion, not daring to move. Her eyes followed the ash as it traveled downward onto her chest. She left it there. 

Two of her shows were on that night, and she discussed this with her sister as she pulled into the drive. Minutes later another car approached, her brother this time. Ignoring him and returning to her book, the girl slumped back against the concrete. 

To her right the boy was slowly climbing a mesquite tree, the better to seize her attention. Once he reached the top he shouted, "Free at last mama!"

The girl giggled while the boy returned an even louder laugh.

"What are you, crazy?" She exclaimed, half embarrassed and half delighted.

Silence. The boy came over and sat beside her in the blue light. 

"I like your shoes."

"Do you? Me too." The boy replied as he dusted off his shirt for no apparent reason.

"Where'ja go to?"

"Store."

"How come?"

"Cigarettes and rubber cement. Footy pajamas."

Ignoring the joke, the girl slowly said, "Papa has hand sanitizer in his trunk."

As though this statement had all the relevance in the world the boy looked over at the girl, then toward the sky. After a full minute of silence he walked inside.

The girl put down her book. The boat had sailed into a different part of her body for the time being. Her father roared inside the house. 

She muttered, "Free at last, mama."

2006

O Brave New Worlds, That Have Such People In Them!

   
Where is the built-in guilt and why remorse when no one called?
A staggering step into madness, or so it would seem when one steps into their own mind.
                   Oh, there is nothing new, there is nothing new. But who is to wonder and remark on infinity and carbon? A world is new if I wrote it for the first just as such if the last written sentence was the first and it went something like  t h i s   s h e-w o l f   i s   a   r e w a r d   t o   m y   k i n s m e n .

+ -

Soon enough, soon enough. 
A striking key has struck; 
     A bell, with which conveyed a light with urgency
But haste! 
Make way for falling skies
For you aren't who you ought to be
And lingers tricks of lights or spells 
In spaces not invaded, alas
You took the easy route and found yourself
Busy existing 
And existing, it is hard
Where are they? They those ancient adventures
And were they, are they
anything?
A quick little thing it seems now
Yet once so long they said 
Eternity in a second, the second being dead. 

Transmigrate

Man in a cave
      darkdarkdark
Holy enclave
      hark!hark!hark!
Found in a grave
      startstartstart





I imagine the best night of my life was the first one, the worst my last - or is it the other way around?

The Giants of Michigan

Two boys sat indian style at the perimeter of a large lake, skipping stones. Had fate fused them together they might have composed a handsome lad; however they were singular beings and as such, plain as could be. The slighter of the two suffered a malformation - he played idly with his corrective footwear. He turned to the other -

"How's home?" Said the one.

"Eh." Said the other.

"Going back?"

"Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Definitely not tonight. Tomorrow, probably. You?"

"Mmhmm."

He glanced downward at his clenched hand, not realizing it had been so. He relaxed, let the stone drop and began to stretch his body back when a small elbow nudged him sharply in the side. 

"Look." Said the one.

"What?" Said the other.

The first boy gestured toward the silt. "Sleeping crane." He said.

"Oh." The other reached down, groping, his eyes on the slumbering avian. He grasped the stone and etched it back into his hand where its groove still remained. He could hear the other boy shift unevenly over himself searching for similar ammunition. Each got up as softly and quietly as he could. The first boy lumbered slowly, wishing up to heaven he didn't betray himself while the other slipped forward as though in a dream. There was a brilliance over his eyes. He proceeded as if he were gliding on air, seeing nothing and holding stones. Pockets heavy, they drew toward the shoreline with bated breath. An unspoken call to arms; fire. It was over in a few short moments of shivering reeds. 

"He's fidgeting." Said the one.

The other chose his aim arbitrarily and in such a manner delivered the death blow. He answered the query, what if I never woke up? He looked down at the thing. It was eerie and floating eerily still in darkening water. "Why won't you sink?" He demanded of water, wave and ripple. 

"Look." Said the one. 

"What?" The other asked. 

"Sleeping crane." He smiled.

They retreated into the dense forest that had been always at their backs, wandering for hours with no one to call them back. No fear of getting lost, for any route is a way out. Breaking into a sprint, they flew through the greenery like berserk birds, crushing brush underfoot, breaking branches with disdain. Tiny droplets of dew aid the wind and wet hair gave the head a tingling. They halted. 

"What's happened?" Said the one.

"Cut." Said the other, pulling chips and shards out of blood and shoe. 

And they were off again. 

When they had settled the slighter boy pulled out a crushed chocolate bar from his trousers. The other had a glass mason jar full of tawny lemonade. And so they dined ravenously and were full within minutes. Sprawled out on the verdant floor, they peered up through the trees. The slim one fell asleep, his feet locked in a tumble. The other watched the sky and thought of his mother. The clouds were twisting and unfurling into little waves and back into dense shapes, reaching out. Could she see me? He wondered, forlorn. He fell asleep and dreamed. One foot felt heavier than the other.  

When he awoke he was alone. Gazing up into the astral, he counted each singular twinkling. Muffled noises wafted here and there, slinking in through the trees. Crushed between the sky and the sound, he was the most isolated form on Earth. 

And when the first frost struck he was certain it was a killing frost, and he ran out to meet it. Hardly minding himself, he tore forward through a crooked door that had been blasted and slammed against its poor hinges months and seconds and moons prior. He tumbled down slick steps with bread in his knapsack and he ran out to meet it. How sheeny it all looked, crisp and innocent. Winking and urging him forward and on. He wiped away every track he could, plowing over and through hills and mounds. The pinpricks of little birds and the scattered shakes of disturbed branches were invitations accepted. Eventually he tired. He settled after a fashion within arms length of the last dule of doves. He tossed forth stale bread, speckling them. As their little beaks seized and plucked he answered the question, what if I never went to sleep? One foot felt heavier than the other.

And at last, solitary, he made it home, there because no one else was. He dragged himself through the contorted entry and up each stair. He reached the end of the stygian hallway and into the dusky room, but found no light was needed. The walls began to glow faintly at first, but comforting still. And though repose was warm, an unfastened ceiling made haste for falling snow. Unable to make it up to the bed, his hand grasped for a quilt. He dragged it down just as he began to soar upslope.  Could she see me? He wondered, forlorn, then wandered no more. 

Diaphanous detritus.

Feeling warm, how does one retain A sense of self or understand A facet of life in which they know nothing But can only sense Im sitting in a room Its sight brings me pain Its objects bring me comfort But I itch within Its walls And my skin erupts Never Healthy Warmer Still and fingers Hurt whilst music plays a lone mans voice over an eerie chorus, ghosts in unison and quick crescendo Books are everywhere I search for meaning within them Sometimes disliking myself in the process Oh good for you she scoffed, her biggest critic she never lets up And oaky tables feel like new and old they know things we dont the humming of the wind brings no solace Warmer Still -

A quick and ridiculous (unedited) automatic exercise. 

Spooks

"Spinoza argued that there is only one substance, which is absolutely infinite, self-caused, and eternal. He calls this substance "God", or "Nature". In fact, he takes these two terms to be synonymous (in the Latin the phrase he uses is "Deus sive Natura"). For Spinoza the whole of the natural universe is made of one substance, God, or, what's the same, Nature, and its modifications (modes)."

I believe this when I have moments of perfect clarity. 
When I'm inebriated, I assume the universe is lifting the veil, but only for the short time while I am incapacitated, this way no one will believe me when I attempt to share the secret. And I become overly sentimental, sweetly trite and glassy eyed.

Ignore it! Oh god, ignore it. I suppose it's better than being militant or sad, or sloppy or mean. 
If one day we all possess zero secrets, understand each other perfectly, we can express ourselves freely and without fear of being seen as the dunce. Until that time, tuuuune out.