07 September 2014

January 21, 2014

Oh SOophia I wasn’t talking to myself I was talking to the dog.
Only if he can find his owner before Dorothy gets home, she hates dogd.
Oh he likes me, he must be a male-mind? Min of course I mind, you cant keep that filthy beast in my house.
You won’t even know he’s here.
Dorothy has to say it’s ok, too.
H=That seems fair.
Ive had it, Ive just had it. In the past few days Ive been turnd down for every available part-time job.
Right. Its dteady work, they supply the uniform, and you’re married to God.

The Most Honest Conversation I've Ever Had

hey, I’m here. where r u?
me 2. behind the bldg.
is that where u r?
maybe J
driving or parking?
one sec
i don’t see ur car
ok, i’m not coming
sorry. it’s 2 hard

The Library

Her white pants are fastened fast,
and sit high.
When she disappears behind the stacks, I
reopen my doors to the world.
For her.

She doesn’t care.

14 August 2014

Visiting Card

8 Gold Teeth
"I see that new style.  I'm old school, but I see that new style."
Administration building, north stairwell.

Snapping the Arrow

I said that time didn't exist.
"You are talking about things that…"
He should have known that I'd
already heard the rest of his sentence.
Every sleight,
every glance,
every desiderium,
had been laid out
before us, on the bed.

The cat leapt up and
sat squarely in the middle of it.

Its weight creased the
neatly folded plane of
our lives, added a third
made surfaces touch
in an uncomfortable way.
In that moment
(that didn't exist),
I wished that I could
find a way to reassemble
the arrow of time.

But there it was, in three pieces:
the cat,
my cat's-paw,
and me.

03 March 2014

Storm Doors

I wanted the dog to walk herself.
But it doesn’t take a conspiracy for things to collapse,
just barking echoes in a church parking lot.

08 January 2014

Archipelago (7/8)

The Island of The Friendly Wanting

The Forgetting began on the Island of The Friendly Wanting.

The Cormorant searches for a decent clearing and lands somewhere in the northeast region of the smallest island in the chain. It is crammed with lush trees and brush, and numerous pools of fresh water. There he gives a brusque recounting of what he calls “the only true side of things”.

“I was quite young, a hatchling then, living on the island that used to be here, The Friendly Wanting. The favorable conditions here brought thousands of birds here every year. And it came to be that they also brought a man, a Baron, a wound of a man desperate for flight. We all assumed an escape, but he was after that other kind of flight. You fly out of danger, but you fly into the unknown.

He wanted to build a ship, but had forgotten how. He knew that no one else would remember, but he also knew that we birds were the only free sojourners that inhabited the Archipelago. With this held in his mind for as long as possible, he rode a dirty plank of wood from his castle on Dimmer Ends to The Friendly Wanting, and threw himself before the birds. Proud creatures that we are, we took pity on him and agreed to show him all we knew of the building of ships. Stupid creatures that we are, all we offered was a babble of rope, wood, canvas, glass, stone, metal, eventually anything else we could think of, tossed together, combined and brought into existence kicking and screaming. We even pilfered the museum on The Atoll, bringing him scraps of dresses, spectacles, and wax fruit, anything to fill a gap or patch a tear. The Vernaculus, The Baron’s second wondership, was borne of the war between sadness, good intentions, and the empire of false hope. It was a happy monstrosity, impossibly buoyed by The Baron’s will, but lacking propulsion.

By this time he had begun to suspect that we were not the experts we appeared to be (though it must be clarified that we never claimed expertise in this arena). After days of floating on that encyclopedia childhoods and vanity, revelatory rage overtook him. He came back to us in the night. Not a single one of us awoke while it happened. I remember being jostled into the day by my mother, who was pushing me out of the nest and into the air. “Fly, go, go go!” she screeched. I instinctively took wing, but had left so quickly that I was uncompassed and stared blankly out at blue sky before me. I had to turn around to see where I was headed, and expected her at my back, but when I turned I saw her receding, flailing n the air and railing against the earth, anchored by a red thread tied around her foot, which led straight to the main mast of the Vernaculus.

From that terminus I then caught sight of thousands more red threads, each stretching from that deformed ship’s body out and up into the air, each attached to a single webbed or unwebbed foot, each tethering a newly conscripted winged soldier into The Baron’s army, the engine of his crusade. He was there, on the deck of the ship, cackling and urging his flock forward, and waiting for the Vernaculus to come to life.

The turning had slowed me, and I feared that I would be caught too, but was more afraid of being alone, lost, and adrift. So I stopped and listened for the sounds of my brothers and sisters who may have escaped into the higher reaches. I heard nothing at first except the plaintive cries of the captives below. Then something else, soft but there. I looked down and realized that it was The Baron, waving his hand, motioning for me to come down, to join him. His eyes held all the power of a maelstrom, so I flew on. But my right wing tugged me backwards. He was aghast at the thought of leaving my mother behind.

There was no talking to him. I told him that if he wanted to stay behind, that was his decision, but not mine. We said our goodbyes. That was that. From cliffs and hidden edges I watch The Baron travel from island to island, the whole of the Archipelago. Scores of people joined him on the Vernaculus. When one there were so many that the great ship began to moan at the weight, he grasped his threads and wove his birdsail across the sky and water, to what I don’t know.”

By now you have forgotten all about the Baron, and The Broached Woman, and most of the Archipelago. It is cold, so you ask the nice bird if he can take you someplace warmer, and he looks very hurt and concerned by this remark, but his wing is very nice to you and tells you to climb up. And you rise into the sky, which has begun its turn to evening.

The Forgetting is the fault of those who don’t save or spend time, but order it.