#people are not ponds they are puddles of mud. if you drop a rock into it it's gonna change its shape

[starry-bi-sky]

Danyal Al Ghul's missed potential - this kid is not gonna behave like his canon self if he's with the league of assassins until his late formative years, and my reasoning why

(feel free to take this all with a grain of salt this is just my thoughts on it, this is all mostly amusing to me and isn't trying to be negative towards anyone else)

similar to how i was talking about how danny growing up in crime alley would affect him, demon twin aus with danyal al ghul make me laugh a lot (affectionate) because... whose teaching danny to unlearn all the ecofascism he picked up from the league of assassins? whose teaching him to be kind? to be gentle? Not the LoA thats for certain.

(you could plausibly say Jazz but she's only 2 years older than Danny and do you really expect a fellow child to properly explain why X is wrong to another child and have it be 100% effective? i don't doubt it'd help to an extent, but not in the same way an adult explaining it would)

plus a ton of other things, like whose teaching him to value human life? not the LoA. Whose teaching him how to adjust to living with American society after he ends up with the Fentons when he's 8-9-10? Who teaches him that killing is wrong, whose enforcing that?

(not the Fentons if you're going the neglectful parent route, and Jazz can try but i really don't think Danny is going to listen to her, a stranger who isn't even part of his grandfather's league)

How do you teach a child to value human life when the greatest development window for that opportunity has closed and he's already formed his own opinions?

You're not gonna get a Danny whose exactly like his canon attitude if he's staying with the league during his formative years (0-8 years old). you're not. You could get someone LIKE it, potentially, or someone who has traces of it or is similar -- like danny's wit and jokes and sarcasm, and on some level his kindness. but you're not gonna have a carbon copy. Development doesn't work that way. "nature" can only do so much in the face of nurture.

If anything, it doesn't even have to be a major change -- in the league he cans till be kind, but it's probably going to manifest in a different way than what is considered normal. Tough love, for one. But there's gonna be something that affects him negatively. Why make him 'always good/kind' when you can make him a brat who develops into a kinder (if spikier than in canon) person?

TLDR: Danyal Al Ghul would not be like how he is in canon if he's with the league until his late formative years -- not without any lasting pr permanent impacts from the league at least. Missed potential to make him an absolute nightmare like damian was -- especially in his early years when he first arrived to the Fenton house.

(this doesn't apply to danyal al ghul aus where he's either given to the fentons as a baby/is reincarnated/etc. this is mostly aimed for danyal al ghul aus where he fakes his death at like, 7-10 and somehow ends up, personality-wise like his completely canon self by 14 without any differences.)

(and even then if he's five or four, or even three, he would still be traumatized and influenced by the league. he'll just have more time to adjust. the sooner he leaves the league the more likely he is to be like his canon self, but not like an exact copy)

(more under the cut)

Anyways what I'm saying is that there is prime missed Danyal al Ghul potential to make him an absolute NIGHTMARE to the Fentons however way he ends up with them, just like Damian was with the Waynes! Cuz why does Damian get all the fun? Danny got the same training and endoctrine as him! He is also an ex-assassin! Why is Danny the only one who is 'well adjusted and non-violent' hm? Hmm?

Why can't he also be mean, and stabby, and a total stuck-up in some way or another? Have fun with his characterization, its prime opportunity to play play-doh and clay with him! If he starts out as X how does he get the personality traits of Y, and thus become XY?

Like take this with a grain of salt if you will, but make him arrogant. Make him an asshole! Make him a bad person at first! Because he will be! He's the blood son of the batman and you mean to tell me that damian is the only one arrogant about it at first? Make him stabby and mean even at 14 when he's begun to chill out! Have fun with it! If he's with the Fentons at any point past the age of four or five then he's gonna be a nightmare to handle because he still remembers the league and his time there.

(and while it gives him more time to chill the hell out, his time at the league is still gonna leave an impact on him.)

also what im saying as well is have him and sam potentially get along like a house on FIRE. Again, Danny grew up under the views of an ecofascist cult and nobody to challenge those views to him until he got to amity park at whatever age in late formative years he was at. He could be about as intense or even MORE intense about environmental awareness/rights than Sam is!

(also him being supremely unimpressed with Sam's wealth. he gave up a palace in the mountains for this town. because that's funny to me - like let his past have more influence on him! it'll be fun!)

you could have a danny who doesn't kill but doesn't fully understand the value of human life because jazz is like two years older than him and isn't that good at explaining why people's lives are important. he won't kill but he's not morally opposed to it. there's very little chance he actually gets bullied at school because he nearly killed Dash the first time he tried anything.

Danny could have scars, physical ones, because its implied in multiple canon that training starts at toddling (my best bet is 3 at minimum and ~maybe~ 2 but only on the later side of 2. Good fucking luck getting any infant under 2 to do anything you ask, ESPECIALLY assassin training. They're gonna stick the weapon in their mouth sooner than they're gonna do katas. This is coming from a daycare teacher.)

there's more examples of how danny being at the league during his formative years would affect him, but those are just some of them. he could have a sword! An appreciation for weaponry and nature. Maybe he still speaks all shakespearan and formal, does he still make bodily threats to people? If Damian is still threatening people at 14 why can't danny?

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #tldr danyal al ghul has a ton of missed potential of what his behavior would be like if he left the league mid-to-late formative years #this post is specifically directed towards those danyal al ghul posts where he ends up with the fentons when he's like. 8 #like great. who taught him to unlearn all of the LoA's programming #how is he exactly like he was in canon despite being with the LoA during his early childhood #source: i've taken multiple child development classes #this isnt to bash those aus at all its just me thinking its hilarious that danny would even remotely be like his canon personality #especially if he's in the league long enough for damian to remember him #like i love danyal al ghul aus i just think there's not enough being taken into account about how the league would permanently impact him #especially if he leaves later on in life #people are not ponds they are puddles of mud. if you drop a rock into it it's gonna change its shape #its also good creative exercises on how to flesh characters out better and better understand how things in a story may impact a character #good thought exercises with the additional bonus of making danny a violent gremlin like damian is #i dont wanna say this is bashing but i guess it is kinda a criticism on the writing in those aus because you’re telling me this had NO #affect on danny on his personality beyond just ‘oh league bad. league scary’?? cmonnn have some fun #like you mean to tell me that being a child assassin had no lasting impact on him or his personality?? like at all??? #he doesnt have an ounce of self-importance/arrogance/anger like damian did?? like none of that *stuck?* he’s just the normal and sane #sibling right off the bat??? five years with the fentons turned him into a complete blankslate?? he has no lasting impact from the league??

[butnobodycame627]

The Frog And His Son

A fantasy AU about Virgil running away from home and finding Lilypadton by a pond. If people like this, I might write more, we'll see. I'm going to be working on some character designs and art for this soon, so I hope people like this?

Sorry that this is really short, I had written more, but it didn't feel fitting to this chapter, so I didn't add it. I'm really bad at deciding when a chapter is too long or short or makes sense aaaagh.

Chapter One: Runaway

It was cold... wet... dark... foggy... The teenager could barely see anything surrounding him. He was afraid. He did not know what he was doing, but believed it was too late to turn back. He just had to keep running.

The rain poured down on him, his hood just barely shielding his face. He normally liked the rain, but he could not appreciate it at that moment.

He could barely see anything and that made it dangerous to run. He did not notice the rock in front of him and found himself tripping and falling into a pond. As if the rain was not enough, he was now drenched.

"Ugh..." He grumbled, shaking his head. "What am I gonna do...?" The boy pondered, staring at his reflection.

He had only now noticed his makeup had been ruined, his hair was a mess, he looked absolutely exhausted, there was a giant frog in front of him, he was crying, he-

"Wait, wh-" He glanced up at the beast before him. For a moment, he considered that it could be friendly. Then he ignored that thought and screamed in horror.

He crawled away as quickly as he could, getting his hands dirty from the nearby mud puddle. How could he outrun that thing? Especially when he was already tired?

As he started running, he noticed that he did not hear large footsteps behind him. It was silent except for his heavy breathing and the rain falling from above.

"Are... you not gonna kill me?" He asked, turning to face the creature.

It shook its head in disbelief. "Of course no-"

He screamed as soon as it spoke, unfamiliar with giant talking frogs. He rarely saw beasts of this sort and did not realize that they spoke English.

"Not! Of course not! That was never my intention!" It spoke over the boy's screams, trying to reassure him that he was safe. "Are you alright, kiddo?"

An anxious mess, he responded "No. No I'm not."

He slowly walked back towards the frog, careful not to trip. He needed company at that moment.

"Everything feels so bad right now that I guess I just thought that you were bad, too...." He sighed. "I'm so scared..."

The frog nodded in understanding. "It'll be alright. I promise."

"Thanks..."

—————————

The storm eventually passed, sun rising over a hill. The boy had fallen asleep beside the creature, so it had to move carefully to prevent waking him. It looked around to find food for him, hoping to surprise him with a meal of some kind.

Shortly after it had walked away, the teenager woke up and glanced around him. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He remembered this pond, right, the pond... Wasn't there something else?

Either way, he should probably go back home, right? He had nowhere else to go, he could never survive out here on his own. Maybe things would work out if he just talked to them-

He heard loud footsteps that made the ground shake. What was that? A dragon? A demon? A beast of some sort?

He saw something green approaching him, setting something down in front of him.

"I found some berries in a forest near here!" It said with a smile.

He had forgotten about the frog. Or rather he had believed it was a dream and pretended it had never happened.

"I know it's not much, but I wanted you to have something to eat." The frog seemed nice enough so far, which made him feel better about this mess. Maybe he did not need to go home. He could just stay with this frog.

"Thank you... so much..." He said, picking up a berry. "You're sure this isn't poisonous?"

"Pretty sure. If you're not willing to try, we can start looking now." It shrugged.

"Looking...? For what?" The boy dropped the berry, looking up at the creature.

"For your home. You're lost, right? That's how you ended up here?" It explained, now sounding a little doubtful. "I was gonna help you get back home."

"... Right." He nodded. "Yeah, of course, I can go back..." He shifted uncomfortably in place, trying to figure out what to do. "I... I should go!" He started running again, this time back where he came from.

"Wait! I didn't mean to offend you, sorry if I did!" The frog shouted from behind him. "Are you not lost?!"

He stopped running. "No. Maybe. I dunno. I think I know the way back from here."

"But is that the reason you were scared?" It specified.

"No. No, it's not."

The frog sat down beside him. "You don't have to go if you don't want to. I just thought you'd prefer to be back home."

"... I'd like to stay. But maybe try to find food that you're sure isn't poisonous." He smiled at the thought of this. It would be strange, but he did not want to go back. At least not yet.

"Alright, kiddo. You got it." The frog hoped that he would explain more later, but did not want to bother him.

#sanders sides #lilypadton #virgil sanders #patton sanders #sanders sides au #thomas sanders #bnc627 writing #the frog and his son #tfahs #I know this isn't good and I know no one will read this aaaagh #i hate when I work hard on something and it doesn't get noticed #but this unfortunately happens all the time =/ #no one reads my writing even though I work really hard on it #so I’ve just kind of assumed it's because my writing is horrible

[hotknitting]

Alaska and ravelry response

I’m writing this post only a week or so after my first ever trip to Alaska, hoping to detail what I saw, sensed, and enjoyed as authentically as possible. Later in this post I will touch on ravelry and racism in the knitting community, an important topic that I cannot avoid as someone so involved in this community. To be honest, this topic probably deserves its own post, but I haven’t updated this blog in such a long time and I tend to put it on the backburner so permit me to post now as I still have these thoughts with me...

First, Alaska. Alaska was hot. While I was visiting with my boyfriend, the state was experiencing record-breaking highs. I was hoping to have some cooler days as a way of inspiring some knitting time (I tend to slow down a bit during the summer). But it was in the lower 90s some days, and unfortunately, smoky from area wildfires. 

The lows we experienced are typical highs for that time of year.

I like hot weather. I just wasn’t anticipating it until my friend, who happened to be traveling to the Juneau area the week before, alerted me to the record-breaking temps. So I brought every different kind of clothing. Even a rain jacket (didn’t need it). Thankfully I did bring a swimsuit, as the warm weather allowed me to swim comfortably in an Alaskan lake.

Needless to say, it was glorious there. I think it’s worth noting that people usually can’t swim in this too cold lake. My boyfriend even got to drive an ATV on the way back, through mud, brush, and pools of water. Terrifying, but so worth it. I was pretty dirty by the end of two 1 ½ hour buggy rides. I do not have any pictures or video for fear of dropping/ruining my phone. While trudging through some of those puddles there were moments I was unsure my phone was even going to make it.

Alaska has so much interesting nature to offer. We saw “The Flats”, where the second highest magnitude earthquake recorded took place, the incredibly big mountain Denali (on a clear day!!), the breathtaking recreational hikes at Hatcher Pass, stunning glaciers, the lake that is home to quite a few swans and ducks, and unfortunately, a forest fire on our drive from Denali. (See below.)

_______________________________________________________________

Hatcher Pass Recreational Hikes. During the winter this place gets pounded with snow and winter athletes.

The days were long, and it was strange to be in a place that was never completely dark. Eye masks were very important, but some nights I was so tired I had no use for them. I just slept through the light.

We explored the areas of Anchorage, Palmer, and Girdwood, a lovely town on the coast. I really enjoyed exploring the Forest Festival while in Girdwood, which is exactly what it sounds like...

Another thing I’ll mention is the wildlife. There are moose like, everywhere. In addition to moose, we saw a variety of animals at Denali National park: caribou, bears, ptarmigans (the state bird), and marmots. 

The two of us were extremely fortunate to visit the park on such a lovely day. The sky eventually cleared up so much, that during the latter half of our 8-hour bus tour, you could see the entire mountain. This is supposed to be quite rare. It is a big mountain. Denali is actually the tallest mountain from its base to its top that isn’t underwater. According to the life science website: The tallest mountain is measured from base to summit. Using that measurement, Denali is taller than Mount Everest. Denali rises about 18,000 feet (5,500 meters) from its base, which is a greater vertical rise than Everest's 12,000-foot rise (3,700 meters) from its base at 17,000 feet (5,200 meters).

Just wanted to leave that there.

The mountain has such an interesting shape too, with two prominent peaks. The South Summit being higher than the North Summit.

While I’m a big planning type of person, I often find travel planning, booking arrangements, etc. to be quite daunting. The planning of this trip was quite simple. The two of us were very fortunate to stay with his aunt and uncle, who live an hour from Anchorage, just outside of the historical town of Palmer. The hospitality and staying arrangements made the vacation so much more enjoyable, and I could not thank them enough for hosting us... and for being amazing cooks. The stress off my shoulders really granted me some perspective, and opened my eyes to why I enjoy traveling so much. Alaska is big, so it is a DRIVE to get anywhere. I loved that; it allowed me to slow down and really appreciate all the sites we were seeing, and all the destinations we were experiencing.

Craft related: In addition to some knitting, I also had a rock painting session with his aunt.

_____________________________________________________________

The days were long. The drives were long. The landscapes were untouched. This nine-day trip has shaped me in a good way, I think. 

RAVELRY

Probably a week prior to the trip was when ravelry.com announced their new policy of banning support for Donald Trump. I’m not exactly sure what prompted this popular website to come out with a policy of this nature now, but it did feel good to learn that I am using a website run by people with values that align with my own. People have their own opinions and are (thankfully) allowed to have those opinions. The truth is, people are going to interpret statements, policies, etc. however they want, however they choose, as it relates to them, etc. I think the blatant racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, and overall hatred that constantly comes from President Donald Trump is at a point in which it is difficult for me to separate, and simply see him as a president and candidate I could even remotely support. I appreciate ravelry’s stance in that they’re not trying to exclude or discriminate against any political party, just Donald Trump and support for him. This distinction is extremely important. I also want to say that my white privilege has left me ignorant to racism in the knitting community for far too long. And I must say there’s still a fight to be had, as it seems every week I’m seeing something new on social media about a prominent fiber artist blatantly coming out against this fight, denying, or disregarding people’s feelings or statements against this incredible hatred.

I see many people point out how shameful it is for the online knitting community to be this way, but I also believe that I never would have known about such injustices had I not been part of this community. So I want to sincerely thank all knitters and fiber artists who have come forward with their experience(s) of hate and discrimination. I cannot understand what that feels like, but it must not be easy. I also want to thank the ravelry staff for creating this new policy. The amount of courage it takes to make actual change might be immense, but I believe it is worthwhile. Because despite backlash, I do believe it is ultimately moving toward a more open and understanding community. Thank you. <3

Now I leave you with a video of a moose trying to cool off by checking out a pond.

Thanks for reading,

[micky-cox]

FORGETTING A FATHER or, I've Lost as Orpheus by Sarah McCann    September 10, A Shatterin In the house, vigilant (a disgusting vigilance, including sleep) I am a kid in a kid’s room. Playing with the wall, I’ve wrapped my fingers into some skull on the far one— a transparent shadow mass, the light rushing around my hands like a bandage. An hour earlier I jailed a night toad, only one inch long, only thirty seconds long, then flicked him off (toads, with their gentle bones and the grace in their double-stretched skin, still are never shes). I flicked him back in the grass. Crumbs of meaty earth in my palms left from the toad’s umbrella toes. I spread the wart-dirt all across my cheeks to blush into ugliness, to become a troll. I remembered, though, that I didn’t want anything to do with being a toad.  The mud ran like lava down the sides of the sink. Dad, you are lying dead in the next room with your dog tags on. My hips could not hold my weight, or the weight of paper, even if I could will myself to stand. Your eyes are the size of your pocketwatch, even closed. I am afraid. I will sleep awake tonight. The first dream was like this: You’ve gone to change your name. The explanation: onomatopoeia and you love me. I think: you’ve just been around too long Chincherinchee. Waratah. Gaga. The next: The ship went down. Candles thicken the unhealthy smell of the room. Dad, you have turned into the one wearing a séance. You forgot to talk to me. I played the knife game today, fingers spread on the glass cover of the coffee table. The problem: my eyes closed too many times. My hand looks chewed, a loose piece of knitting. How is it that, still, we can keep someone dead in the house? A whale on land is not hematite, striped silver, not liquid, not mercury, not a whale. This whale, dragged from the dune and sandy, is no one I know. Grounded completely. He was never that. A heap of rotting hay. I’d burn it tonight if I could. Do you hear that, Dad? Dirty clothes. Fireplace left over from a fallen down house. Ears where lightning struck eyes squirrel hollows nose a shriveled sunless branch no mouth (he was quiet) hands the oyster shell shapes of fungus wing flutters his knees tight gnarled knots in the skin the leaves a halo bothered by wind.                             September 8, Distilled I took the sleeper car to see him the last time. I had been drinking since Mom called. I found this on a club car napkin: The train windows are drunk— lips licked with whiskey, brown-tainted, swallowed in caramel. Pine trees dip through the slurred puddles dragging their lacy feet. When we are quick the trees are whipped into mud. Burial mounds aching, all stuck through with bones, aching in solitary pain— lost hills of death— now run together like ocean waves. Even the creek we travel with begins to look liquid, fast as glass, and slips along shimmering and ridged like a clear earthworm. The man who left this at the bar was wet, from the knees down. I imagined about him: I see a man right now in the middle of a business suit in the middle of a rain finding a seat on the sidewalk then pulling a garbage bag over his head all around him. I immediately think of punishment, lost babies that people throw in dumpsters in plastic. I think to save him. He is just hiding. Again, there are babies in my head. When you can’t see, there is nothing truer, that no one can see you back. The man is simply in a place with not so many colors. It isn’t that he disappeared. That can be blamed on the rest of them. The rain has something to do with this: the black of oil churning in circles separating to turn into everything. Wings of color, all directions. The man looked down to see his grief diving and swimming in smiles. And a car ran over this. When he crossed the street, some splashed on his shoes. He caught a little of the all in his pant cuffs. So he sits. None of this is important though. It matters that he is still there, that I am still with him, though across the road. But in the train. Nearly there. Now I am wishing there is no drink limit: I empty the whisky into the hollow-eyed tire swing.  It drips slowly out, like a sloppy tradition, from a nail-hole in the tread. New whiskey, steeped in old oil and dirt road, rubber.  I sit underneath, mouth open to catch the tired rain.  A golden looking glass down my throat.  Spreading. The train slows in time to my blood. The amazing thing about me is that I am as pale as water in an ash marble fountain. You can see right through my skin. Lacy capillaries twinkling like angels. My dejected, frown of a liver. Downstream, muscles wrapped as Valentine gifts. Ovary arrowheads. Lungs, one broken wagon wheel. My ribs, flirty, and always slightly unzipped, show a winking heart, like a lighthouse. I direct everyone home.                                           September, One Wing The trees—long-lasting fireworks. This branching in everything: streams fall in ribbons, broken around a rock arms to fingers little thoughts, like “Kiss me there” limbs into “and there” to the twig of “one more” lightning Nothing stays one, together. But nothing ever comes unattached. Look at each cold breath growing lie a crystal tree in the air. Every bit of air drawn in is immediately lost in a web of veins tributaries ending in still more gossamer. It is just as possible to branch in a circle as it is to fall together there, but the branching is what lasts.                                           September 12, Grub A lovely dinner— guests easy to please— and not after long we napped in the backyard in the bog. I floated down to dine with nine corpses this evening. We ate the flower’s meat twine-green bones. I prepared this salad: unzipped the muslin dress of lettuce, split and spilled the whole heart of a carrot’s arrow, cut the diamond of an onion chandelier, unplugged a throbbing tomato from its juice. I did more.  My fingers are stained radish. All our life’s work is dying. Look at any face. you will see shriveled kidneys left too long in an oven. at the same time, a bloated liver strung with a flood of poison. knees crumbling in a concrete way from their business in the slums. (I am taking the body apart again) the library of the lungs each book weighed with mold. I tossed a few of my own teeth with salad, for croutons.                                           September 10, The Last of the Season I hate to realize what I’ve been doing since ten.  Raking in the wind. Peeling impaled leaves, leather butterflies, off my rake. It is homemade and wooden. I may as well have a broom. Trucks encourage the wind and, the lonely ones, on the road for weeks, see me, a girl, and yell out. They must miss some one. I think, if Sisyphus and I were the same age, we’d have a good time. I could walk on top of his rock like a log roller, rake in hand, sweeping the wind to get the flyaways. Whoever finished first would buy the end-of-the-day beers.  We could finally sleep. Dad would rather leaves rot in our marsh of a lawn than to rake. His plan was a forest of mushrooms and the under-stone smell that clings to the legs of grey feathery insects.  Our yard was left to its own.  Once, it thought itself into a pond and drowned. I stand between the wind and my lighter and touch each of the eight shriveled fingers. A rake on fire looks like a strange, scared man. I dropped him in the gutter.                                           September 13, Burial To think like a tree, first let yourself into the ground.  Sometimes your roots go down, sometimes you must dig a hole to stand in.  The religion of dirt heads into toes, then rides the sap up the body.  It slows you down like meditation. Tar for blood.  Now, a tree. The touch of onion chiffon on fingers, a wet light bulb, the way a sharp star smells. Onions look like full clouds when the clouds are so large the veins of the sky thicken soon to rush again with rain turning the land rusty. The clouds all day have looked like my dog— not the shape of Aslan, but the pipe smoke quality of him— something you feel like you should be able to hold, but can’t. Each swelling of the skin of the clouds is a single curl of Aslan’s fur. He actually stayed on my bed when I put him there for two minutes with the window’s wind on his nose then ran off to find where the breeze went. I stayed at the window. Some of the grass after the long assembly decided that the air was no good. The rebels (the union) have started growing back into the ground, head-first and loopy like a strange, one-color needlepoint. The trees, when they heard about all this grew mournful.  Again. It’s nothing new.  They cry about having lost everything, and they have. They look like they have. The stage of winter. Teachers say it is the less light that throws people on their knees in the snow. It is really the teacher of the trees, their tragedy.  A little Oedipus, part Hamlet, and always Death of a Salesman.  The no communication that is communication. The trees think they are sad, sure. But they are making people cry. With all this nonsense going on, the tulips have decided to stay in their leafy eggs forever.  A dreamy hibernation that lasts, swirled in satin licks, the insect-black inside. Clouds bandage the bruised sky above my unhappy yard. Aslan has come back his head under my hand for a second. Is it coincidence brains are shaped like clouds? A tree’s tiara?                                           September, Graves: those that are cared for every Saturday, marble rinsed down, dead daisies removed, azaleas trimmed those set in diagonals with rose marble, not ash enumerous those that are warm boiling over with dirt ones that are empty, not drawn yet, but surely will be above the ground below rain-riddled, or roots dusted with lilacs, with the taste of dusk ones sculpted as angels those with candles in wind-proof glass ones for children, with dolls with snow on top sometimes, the ocean forgotten the skin, when one dies alone those that have been robbed, lockets snapped from crackling spine rings slid off white sticks the skin, when one wants to die                                           September 30, How I Made The Day I went diving in a water cave, a dark-lit, placid, ocean grave where sharks were sleeping like dull blades, and kept far from the nightmare waves. Stalagmites crawling with sea lice this well where Mayans sacrificed held gold that seemed to melt like ice when I brought it to the surface for light. Each honeyed tear dripped again to the ground to form a glassy, glowing mound like lave worming, turning sound the cursed gold coiled pools around. I saw this frozen light become a thousand eyelids, then just one. It opened to let out the sun, from under this water the day was spun. A tarry sea was tempered to the water that can teem and chew, a phoenix and a wildfire brew. The ocean from black drowsy gold to blue.                                           After All, Renovations The finish is inching off the floors. Unpainting itself in rays. Unraveling your work. Your fingers were splintered like a cactus.  And now, are sinking into wood, spilling into each bare fiber. There’s your whirlpool thumbprint— no, a mat dark in the plank. Is that your elbow’s scar I’m standing over? My toe closes your eye. No, that’s not right. A tangle of knee?  Dizzy. Turn around, turn it all back to wood. October’s End, All Souls’ Sunset Skeletons clank woodenly in the dark Light through the ribs— wind all over Mexico. a dead red prism.; The blanket on you, Witch costume, ragged at the knees. frozen prism, Stringy hair, echo of fringe. was woven on such a night, A painted girl pulls her hat, turns strings of dusk shy, at a dog. the weft, Later, the real demons, stars strung as shy warp. the children gone. You were born after sunset. Your face is so open, It is right you should be gone eyes closed, and always begs: at the same time. “Just one more sweet. Children are begging pesos I’m in light up to my elbows as ghosts. A small devil but not drowned yet” alights at my elbow. The blanket settles. A skeleton has begun to show through The cloth holds onto your old body, the settling blanket. the wind to the shore.

http://www.mortarmagazine.org/forgetting-a-father