alt-texts
we are cringe but we are free
posts here are words
before I publish them more officially: fragments, rough drafts, brief trills of birdsong,
hover-text, fleeting thoughts, alternate endings, and sneak peaks!
enjoy
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Text
there is a break in the rain
but water still drips from the trees
crows are perched at the crown
as young warblers keep watch
as ducks get their afternoon sleep
and a timid baby seagull
is breaking bread with me
the water in the fountain flows backwards
the lilies are gone from the pond
all is quiet- too quiet
but the squirrels still are skittering
up, down, and around the old oak trees
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it would be foolish to think it over
to imagine that this is an end
that this end is more than it is
it would be prudent to think it over
roll it around once or twice
check with all 5 selves in your head
oh, isnt it a lofty ideal?
to make peace before you end up dead?
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sometimes gods speak
through the mouths of mortals
and sometimes I feel
I’ve dreamed this all before
and I remember
the night I gave my first prophecy
how the thunder did rumble
the windows did creak
the lightning did scream
yet I still don’t know
who was I trying to warn?
scribbling so urgently
on one of my journals
Beware The Coming Storm
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I saw the blood in the sink
and mistaking it for a petal from a rose
in a haze I reached out to touch it
and it was still wet
see-
Ive been here before
petals of blood soft to the touch
so long ago
a long time ago and yet
it is as if I never left
so long ago
the first time I bled
but still
Still the blood is wet
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it is groundhog day
so how fitting to return to a day frozen in time
to return to a room years past I had known
and as years passed
I have been so far from home
yet I return
and the world turns again
not quite as it left off
but close enough
though, now, I have grown
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at times I feel the itch beneath my skin
as if I could at any moment, tear open
this crack in my amber skin; no blood left to spill from it
I am already eaten from the inside out
by thousands of hungry
still hungry
butterflies
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when I was young
nearly every tree was hung (with butterflies)
but lately I find myself wondering: where have all the monarchs gone?
do they not still smell it?
that alluring scent upon the breeze?
that hint of rotting flesh among the flowers,
beneath our eucalyptus trees?
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inside the mind
one may look at themselves
a neat trick
is this done by mirror?
or is one somehow split?
and if the latter- which part(s) do the looking?
which parts are being viewed?
can a mirror truly reflect in entirety?
can a split self view itself?
and in among the muck now,
other things do lurk- we know this to be true
so one is left to wonder:
what is in ones mind other than you?
one may go inside the mind now
to take a look at oneself
and if ones mind now is left to wander
you may just find
that there is also Something Else
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time as a spiral
this is a start- but not enough
not quite- not yet
time as a spider
who wraps us in her webs
time as a recluse
or well hidden sort of squid
phylum, family, kingdom yet unknown
time as a tree
roots and branches all alike
time as a fungus, electric
this is a start- but not enough
time does not fix our taxonomy
it begets we discover new domains
time as a code
as an algorithmic road
time as something new
And of course, as that of old
technologic, natural, magic
not in a line, spiral, or circle, but all at once
all at once now,
begetting we reimagine the mythic
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who am I?
why do I write with such urgency?
who am I trying to warn?
who am I trying to be?
I feel always, so open, an outsider
like I do not belong anywhere that I want to be
I feel like an obvious pretender when I act as who I want to be
I wish I Was
but I feel as an actor, only Trying to Be
not fooling anyone; just making a fool of me
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there is a rhythm to it
feet against dirt floors
strangers dancing in the halls
the fog on the moors
but I have fallen off beat
fallen too deep into loss
laid too long among the peat
and grown pale beneath the moss
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I try to write
but am overwhelmed with feeling
it was only two nights ago
yet it feels like ages away
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I have lost my way
down a mountain path and through the valley
I feel the echoes still
of the spring
in our steps through those hills
and I dream of flight
dipping below clouds,
through mist, open-mouthed
see-
in dreams, I have no sense of smell
yet somehow it now seems
I know the taste of fate
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did you love her?
in the hardest moments,
did you hold on tightly to the warmth of before?
did you love her?
did you hurt her?
which matters more?
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how far would you go to slay your demons?
to fight in the holy war?
would you fly?
to find rest from your demons?
would you drive?
if you were told the way?
would it make you feel powerful?
would it make you feel alive?
would you dance among the battle knowing:
it isnt holy to the lions, it isnt holy to the deer
it isnt even holy to most preachers, or their seers
it isnt holy to the ones who order from afar
it isnt holy to anyone here
You are only that last reflection- bounced back from the depths of a damned animals eyes
(just a hand, holding a knife)
would you feel it then?
would that still bring you to life?
would you offer your own blood if it were the other way around?
would you feel holy?
would it make you feel important- feel alive- just for a moment before you die?
do you still want it?
how far would you go to get it?
would you proudly reflect your killers weapon; eyes fixed upon the knife?
or would you be human enough to stay alive?
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we are not all borne of the damned
this is no hell-earth, not unless we make it so
and even those fallen, disgraced, do we not believe in transformation? do we?
do we want to?
and tell me now; who do you think of when you of “we”?
and when the power goes out next time, whose lights will stay on?
who will freeze as we count the minutes
who will freeze and who will we lose before that backup generator hums?
before they learn to sing the old songs?
see-
the apocalypse has always been now; we have always stood on the brink;
the end is closer than we think, and,
I have seen the blood, the blood beneath the sheets
(please tell me: why is there blood beneath fresh sheets?)
So I shut my curtains. I close my blinds.
But the winds are strong this year
These windows fly open and there is blood on the curtains too
surely there is blood on me
and probably at least a little on the bottom of your shoes
but that’s ok.
a spot of peroxide will wash that right out
how long have you had that wound?
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dawn crosses the loom and folds in again
time is shifting again in the weaves and the weft again
leaves whisper in the trees, bare branches whip the air
this is how wind speaks through the trees again
Wind says to Dawn:
the tapestries always fray around the edges and on this one;
the stones are falling again
the sun is differnt
the ocean too
something is quieter
something has left- have you seen her?
is she a her? is she at all?
I wonder the same
yet in whispers
I sometimes hear the prayers of those who know this earth
of those who know the truth, who do not deign to plead with gods
instead they say it in rounds, singing out
in a timeless sort of spell:
we have never forgotten the change you threw into our fountains
and you must never forget the truth that lies beneath your well
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