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Creatus Annus, 355:00:00:00

Time works in such mysterious ways huh? Sometimes saying “I’ll do it latter” can lead you to the wrong paths.

All the Time in the World.

Long ago, on heavy rainy day,

maybe in place you may never discover,

a little bird stopped by my window,

perhaps seeking refuge from the sky’s crying.

It flopped it’s wings and dry it’s feathers,

it sang a melody to make itself known.

I looked at the bird and with stupid confidence,

decided “I’ll take care of you latter, I have all the time in the world.”

But the next morning when drops still poured,

when I thought I was free, not a care at all,

two little birds stood by my window,

singing a melody to make themselves known.

And I sighed “I’ll take care of you latter, I have all the time in the world.”

Hours turned into days,

days into weeks,

weeks into months,

yet it didn’t matter to me.

I was too focused on the rain,

on how heavens bleed in agony,

that I did not notice the birds by my window,

and their unstoppable chanting.

After all, I’ll take care of them latter, I have all the time in the world.

Until one day the glass shattered into pieces,

until one day I recalled the two little animals.

I expected them to come fly and settle in,

my, the surprise when a million birds stormed without warning.

Yet, what was I hoping?

What was I yearning to happen?

If you don’t let a bird inside once,

do not think it will forget and retire.

And a bird will look for a friend,

and that friend for a friend.

So better open the window sooner,

better not pay attention to the rain anymore.

Because before you can notice,

a million birds will be inside your home.

Before you can notice, you will not have all the time in the world.


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I stood right by the train platform line
Thinking that I could sweetly disappear
As swift as I was forced to fight for life
The thought raced bursting out of every seam
Taking every inch of my rotten mind
Like riptide crushing me from head to feet
But something held me back that night
Cause I still tight to this excruciating life
I still walk on this fragile line

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There’s a most doleful and most mocking funeral! The sea-vultures all in pious mourning, the air-sharks all punctiliously in black or speckled. In life but few of them would have helped the whale, I ween, if peradventure he had needed it; but upon the banquet of his funeral they most piously do pounce.

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Ten #8x10 contact prints from “Self”
————————————————————————————1. Fourexposuresonesheetoffilm, 2014
2. Self, 7/9/18
3. Self, 6/1/20
4. Out There at Summers End, 9/6/16
5. Spinning, 5/20/20
6. Before the Mirror, 1/7/18
7. Grandfathers Gold Watch, 1/25/18
8. Two Minds, 2/18/19
9. Tale Half Told, 1/27/20
10. Pulled Apart Together, 5/27/20

Marco Lorenzetti

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The basis of our language is comparisons. 

The most versatile word in the English language may be “like”. It is used everywhere, and no matter where in the sentence you interject “like”, the sentence is understandable. I start wondering why we like to use “like” so much, and I think most people, me included, simply don’t have the ability to describe what we mean using words alone, without resorting to comparisons. Our vocabulary may not be big enough to identify the precise word with the nuance we want, or we just aren’t practiced enough in our speech to be able to pull out the exact wording from our dark, labyrinthine mind on demand. 

“Like” is a core element of our communication, so much so that the metaphor and simile are literary devices, the kind of thing that language arts teachers want you to do. If your writing is very precise, conversely that’s bad. “That’s dry,” we say. The art of literature seems to be, instead of pointing to the object, we use markers and arrows to refer to the object indirectly. It is a shadow show, in which the shadows are the metaphors and similes. The shadows are what we actually work with, but it’s the shadowless places that we really mean. 

But then are the blank, shadowless places possible without the shadows? We find metaphors in passages beautiful and moving. Maybe we find them so beautiful and moving because there isn’t a more precise definition or description of the matter in question. Even cold, hard definitions derive their meaning from our understanding of other things. We can’t understand something without understanding some others. Maybe nothing truly stands on its own, and eloquent language isn’t so much a matter of being able to precisely pinpoint the object, but finding the most apt supporting column. Because everything in this world is a supporting column for one another. The difference is in the distance.

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Scrawny grey haired dog tottered along the sidewalk
On the last thread, every step is taken with great regret
Orange lamp glow flickered flashing bleeding paws
Cuts all over thin skin are remnants of past mistakes 
Bones are the only thing left to carry these shameful memories 
Rumbling is the only thing he craves to calm
He has long forgotten where his home was
What the dog wants is what it doesn’t know
The dog just wanders off to the unknown

And so he became a sinking ship in the sea
A mere bones for fish to pick
Crumbled and folded on pavement of cold,
What dog wants he has forgotten long ago
And faces of his masters in his dreams are all burnt down
Emptiness that tugs inside his tummy
Has now turned into an every day whining struggle
It’s eaten him all up

And now all he wants is to calm this wild
He dreams of clouds but something wrapped around his paw
Something wants him to revel at this sideshow
A mere pawn on a chessboard
In someone’s hands that stained in red  
And the road the dog took, if he is still alive, would be filled with cheering crowds
But what’s the green worth when dog’s rotten inside?

But the half-beaten dog just wants to rest for a while
He hasn’t gotten much sleep since he stormed out
He just wants to nap before being swept by wild
Fever dreams and haunting flashbacks washed away by nightmares
Faded to mere open wounds hiding behind his muzzle
Red flags he cant seem to throw off 
He can still see it being replayed on a loop in his mind  

Now with one eye open, dog finally closing the door
Lying in a puddle of tears in realization of its misery
A lone dog in the world swarmed with monsters wearing different faces 
Dog’s heart losing its slow beat
Cold gust brushed him suddenly 
Reminding him that its the only thing that stayed with him
The only thing to get him through it

The dog closed its eyes and slept day and nights
Sweet blackness and nothing more to it 
It didn’t feel a thing when body turned its self off 
It didn’t feel shame being thrown off in nearest dumpster hole 

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“Do you miss me?”

I hated that question. It was like one of my recurrent nightmares, where I absentmindedly roll my tongue back, only to feel the empty sockets where my molars were supposed to be.


Wasn’t there supposed to be something? Where have they gone? But the more I quested, the wider the gaps became, until I am staring at a handful of blood-crusted teeth in my cupped hands.

I could have stuck them back, if I was quick enough. I remember reading that in the internet once. Not that I’m a dentist, but surely it’s worth a try?

Except… They weren’t my teeth at all. Apparently someone had helped me to dig them up from the fresh corpse in a grave, so I could smile.

Okay, my nightmare hadn’t been that morbid, although it was close.

Point is, there’s nothing mine. I looked and looked, kept on digging, for years and years. I got myself fake teeth, sometimes, so I could eat and pronounce the T’s and C’s. I kept my mouth closed, other times, when I don’t. I nod and I smile without parting my lips so nobody would see the void in it.

It wasn’t that terrible, really. I had the fake teeth when I need them. I don’t need them for at least 8 hours a day, when I sleep.

Until someone asked me the question again. Or when they said they missed their family, their friends, someone, anyone. And I’ll start looking for my teeth and felt nothing in those sockets.

A word is defined by something, or at the very least the lack of something. How do you explain the lack of ‘missing’ without being a stone cold bastard?

I had no name for it, so it stays, unspoken.

Or rather, spoken once. I braced myself for that horror on their face, but it never happened. Thank goodness it never happened. It was nice, to finally speak them, even if I never found the right words.

There is nothing, and it has no name. I roll my tongue back and feel the empty sockets again. But the sun will rise. It always does. That’s when I pick up my props, and let you know that even if I don’t miss you, even if I can’t feel it, I enjoyed your presence whenever you are present, and thank you for that.

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Sometimes I miss how you held me

Wrapping your arms around my waist like strong snakes coaxing beautiful women to bite into apples so they may learn how to love

-I wish you had bitten into your apples deeper than you bit into me

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Deep in a remote forest, on a remote archipelago there is a flower.

This is the first time in an aeon that these seeds were thawed and able to grow.

There is also a squirrel. This squirrel has yet to notice the flower, but soon, and quite peculiarly, this flower will become the squirrel’s favorite flower. It will spend days going from one bloom to the next, smelling and being covered in the pollen. Inadvertently pollinating a hundred extra fruit for the next season.

In the coming winter the squirrel will have a sense of loss and longing for the blooms it cannot quite remember. It will bury the fruit from the flower to tide itself over. It will not know that the fruit is what has become of its beloved blooms. It will not remember the blooms, only the sensation of loving them.

In the spring the squirrel will rejoice in rediscovering the blooms. It will once again spread pollen far and wide, and feast on seeds in winter.

After only a handful of years the weather shall reach incredible extremes that once again make the flower hibernate and steal the squirrel’s home.

In a handful of decades the sea water will rise too far and deposit salt in the earth. The ground will never be sufficient for the flowers again.

Man shall never see them.

Man shall never know of the squirrel that loved them.

But for this season, the squirrel has found a novel and beautiful thing and embraced the possibilities.

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photo album

I carry a photo album everywhere I go

Not one that others can see

Or feel the weight of

It isn’t stored in bag

Or on a shelf

But in the most secluded place of all

My mind

I flip through those pages often

Each a literal memory

To revisit those moments

And those feelings

Bright joyful memories

But over time

The pages fray

And the photos fade

So I’ll take my paints

And stroke in those details



And feelings

Over and over again

Until my past strays from history

And becomes a story

That I tell myself

Using those small paintings

With canvases of photos

And my photo album becomes an art gallery of what I want to remember

Because when memories fade

I paint them back




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Lake Chicot 06 10/27/2015 – Lake Chicot State Park, Ville Platte, Louisiana

We are riding a black horse
bareback on a dark night
in the pouring rain
down a steep trail.

Our place is to stay on the horse,
and not try to tell her what to do.

I recommend leaning forward,
with your cheek on her neck
and your hands extended down
toward her shoulders
and your knees pressing into
her sides,
and letting her find the way.

Keep that image/metaphor
in mind
as you step into each day.

And bring it up into consciousness
when you encounter
turns of events you don’t expect,
and news you can’t handle.

We are riding a black horse
on a dark night
in the pouring rain
down a steep trail.

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Lost at sea - Sailing Home

You’ve saved me once and again twice

From the world around, from my own vice

Being a hero, it’s who you are

A saviour, a friend, near or far

I wish I didn’t need much saving

But through out all the storms I’m braving

You’re my pillar, my rock, my anchor

Battleship, not a sinking tanker

You hold my hand, even from afar

And we navigate to the north star

I was lost, that much is true

Course correction, all new crew

I’m on my way, just wait, I ask

No more imposters, just finishing tasks

Productivity, the name of the game

Progress, change and reframe…

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I look at queer labels this way.

When u got an apple in a store u put a price tag and a label on it…You buy the apple and take it home.

The apple sits around for a while and works just fine as what is is…but after a bit u eat the apple and now its gone and ur left with seeds.

At the store seeds have a different label and different price and eventhough you bought an apple…now you have seeds. Same you…different label.

After that you plant the seeds and you get a tree, again different price and label for the tree at the store.

And after yet another while you might end up holding an apple again, that grew on that very same tree.

Does that make the apple any less? Are you bad or “indecisive” for not buying a tree right away? Na man…you are just as valid as if you had walked into that store years ago and bought that tree right away, or those seeds or if you had stuck with the apple.

Changing labels as a queer person is A-OKAY and anyone telling you different might just be dissatisfied and angry at the rotten fruit that they are sitting on, while you watch your beautiful garden.

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