Thinking about the way Pix’s “My name has been Pixlriffs” implies uncertainty. Has been, an ongoing thing. It has been Pixlriffs for this time that we have seen him. As if it’s an active process. Continuous, yet not constant. A choice. It has been Pixlriffs because he wanted it to be. Thinking about an archeologist in a ruined world. Restoring the past and seeing it in front of him. How does he know what it looked like unless he was there? A man who is facilitating the story of others. “It wouldn’t make sense for me to be there” because the historian of the ancient world does not have a place in the present, or so he would like you to believe. Thinking about a knower-of-other-worlds. Someone who saw people he never met come through the riff rift and knew them anyway. A man who knows another world in more detail than it’s inhabitants- who could know the lives of every hermit? I’m thinking about a man, Pixlriffs, he decides, that is ever changing by nature. A king, a historian, a teller-of-tales. I’m thinking about the importance of names. “My name has been Pixlriffs”
And so it has.
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I love crows, ravens, and blackbirds.
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Unhurried
I.
sage
eucalyptus
the soft purr of the ocean
rain-damp pines
a deer.
it is still, that deer,
and so am I
we watch each other wide-eyed,
waiting,
then we go our own ways.
I remember that moment
the deer has likely forgotten.
I wonder why,
the memory comes now.
II.
waking each day
in no hurry to rise,
intriqued by the day barely begun.
sourdough bread,
chamber music over coffee--
the right sort of cafe
and what else?
the possibility of love?
a sudden adventure
presenting itself?
possibilities for men
much younger than me.
III.
the sea,
giving me time,
I won't hurry,
but I'll be along,
after a pause,
a wait,
then gone my own way.
-- Michael Boiano
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Thinking about how you convey lingering and pause with movement.
Because you can’t see things without negative space.
I can’t quite communicate the thought but basically, in my mind, there is this little animation playing. You can’t see the healing without the pain. You cannot linger in the sun without the knowledge you must go inside.
If you could stay forever, it wouldn’t matter that you want to.
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More poetry for you
A short one this time
I'm a Summers child
I sup on rays of dust suspended in oxygen and filtered through sunlight
My bones are simply vehicles for the green scent of life growing against all odds on a cliff face
The cold pulls the will to live out of me, away from me, like a sieve my pores turn to the gaping maw of winter as all the me-ness of me seeps out and freezes with the tulips buried under snow
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here's a fake interview about my me & my girlfriend that i transcribed from my head. enjoy!
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what does one do with the wretch once it is caught, the flesh too rotten to touch, a walking corpse that does not know the monster he is or the harm he had caused
a hunt; completed but with no end
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but in all seriousness, please watch my favourite performance of this monologue of all time
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It's like lightning and the thunder that always follows. You see it first, out of the corner of your eye. That quick purple flash under clouds. And then you know it's coming. The sound is inevitable at this point. The thunder shakes you from your very core, no more prepared for it than you ever are. It rumbles and fades like it's reluctant to leave. Then, you wait for the next flash and hold your breath. That's what we are. You're the lightning, the warning. I'm the thunder, the inescapable reaction to you.
r.m.h
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Can't tell if I like this one or not
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(Pixlriffs lore in which I experiment with iambic pentameter)
It takes not mortal blood to trick a god
And as such “My name has been Pixlriffs”
Is not a claim made from a mortal tongue
The god of Stratos knows not who he meets
In truth the miss is not his fault alone
His immortality is not yet old
And memory seems not to serve him well
The past- a copper king and mesa home
Are lost in mist from rising to divine
The archeologist hopes the flood of power treated his friend well
Yet he remains under a spell to hide
How would how should how could he tell him now
This life is not the first that they have lived
How could he speak of humanity lost
The end of empires similar to these
The end of the world
This burden need not land upon his friend
Indeed the truth of time takes tolls to learn
For now, the god may believe in the lore
The emperor of past will watch him grow
And as such: “My name has been Pixlriffs”
Uncertainty within the tense he chose
His friend, his kin, his kind might yet unmask
An answer for a question he won’t ask
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this too is poetry
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