Creature Comforts
The dog snores quietly, content on her twin sized mattress. A mattress I bought for her because it’s cheaper than the dog beds that big pet stores sell at twice the price and a quarter the size. Her old hips find comfort in the lavish space, so I’ve paid to ship it around the country, because if any of us have eared the right to live vainly, it’s her.
Nightfall
I set a spider lose in the yard, who's probably going to die.
It wasn’t right away.
Trapping him under a clear cup, he shared this prison with me today.
Nightfall gave him a far better chance at survival.
Trapped he surrendered, curling his legs in. If he could weep, I imagine he was sobbing. By the end of the ordeal I put him through, I imagine he’d lost all sense of hope. My tax paper folder slid under the cup ever so gently. He didn’t even want to move anymore. The cup guided him onward, forcing him to move—whether he was ready, or not. My heart broke a little, but it was better this way. The world could’ve easily consumed him.
He gently walked out into the thick forest of dense grass with canopy enough to protect him, with more Silverfish than he could ever eat, more cracks in the foundation to call home than he would ever need.
He’s a wolf, maybe his will is strong enough to survive the transition.
Who knows, but at least he has hope. With that, he has all he could ever need in the darkness of nightfall.
Isolation
Most people are terrified of it. I’m not. It’s peaceful. Well, not in the beginning, but if you can find the courage to face yourself then you’ll find a best friend in your demons. More and more the less and less I enjoy the company of people, favoring the company of my hound. She’s old, and grouchy now. She’s more stubborn than she’s ever been, but there’s no mask. She doesn’t need to appease. There’s no lack of accountability, if she fuck’s up, first it was probably deliberate, and second she owns up to it. Her love is perfect, not conditional. Yeah, she’s the thing. I could throw it all away, burn the books, toss the computers, and spill the inks. A star filled night sky, on a quiet night, a warm bed, and an old smelly hound. That’s it for me. More and more I understand why Twain kept his hounds close, and people at a distance.
Transitions
Again, I find myself between the old world and the new. The sounds of crumbling stone are at my back as the vines rise up reclaiming what’s rightfully hers. I’m reminded of the old phrase ‘a rolling stone’ and so on. Full of shit that is. Goodbyes layer themselves over the years. It might not be moss, but it’s heavy nonetheless. At least the sunset on the horizon is always beautiful—promising that even if it all goes to shit, and the ship goes belly up, that there will always be something beautiful in the new. To my fellow weary adventurer, allow the dead to burn away, but don’t look back lest you join the flames. Wash the blood from the decks, set your sails, and hoist your anchors. We’ll catch the sunset yet.
The Horror
My mind is a frozen forest,
where lightning and hurricanes roam.
Where witches play endless games.
Their illusions designed to mislead.
It’s a violent and terrifying place.
Caelum
There is a space
of our own creation.
A place,
we share.
Soft red carpets,
and book shelves
of empty books,
filled with stories
yet to be written,
with crackling fires,
and raging storms,
where we twirl
and dance
in the warmth
of the fire
and each other,
where we smile
at each other
in the vicious rain and wind,
despite the chaos,
beauty will emerge
from him and I,
because we both
choose
to be here,
to stay here.
Reality
The rich stand on the throats of the poor, they smile dinning on rich fatty cakes, from their yachts and in their ballrooms, they look down on you at 60, with the outline of their boot print on your neck and say thank you. They’ll rip the food from your children’s hands. They’ll use them as bargaining chips while convincing you it’s about money. When they win, we’ll hail their victories knowing their absence of virtue. They’ll spend endlessly, for more power, for more resources, for more.
We wander home in bright streets, unable to see the stars. We stare at the wild, an art exhibition imprisoned in digital signals. We take night strolls to stare at the peaceful concrete jungle, illuminated by streetlights we don’t need…to smell the exhaust of our impatience. We attend cathedrals created by man, to connect with a thing that condemns its existence. We give them money, so they may hoard and craft grand altruistic illusions. Even as mother earth, sends her vines to reclaim our atrocities, we rip them from their roots and claim we know best.
We turned love, into a game of vanity. Raw fingertips, swiping for vain arousal, hoping for love, settling for those who tantalize the senses, who stimulate the nerve endings. We traded intelligence for popularity and wisdom for thumbnails. Poetry, reduced to two lines of a catchy song. Music, reduced to a 15 second bridge for quick punch lines. Lifetimes of craft dwindled down into 30 second intervals of butchered craft so that the popular can strengthen the hollow.
We do all this, and question why the world is dying. We do all this as the herd claims that god has abandoned us. If she stares patiently watching, when it requires bloody hands to turn us from the cliff’s edge—then perhaps she has, more over, perhaps its justified. Reject the herd, walk the other way, run for your life. They’ll chase you, because you’re not like them. They’ll try to convince you to kill the light, to kill the crazy. You’re not crazy. Run damn you, run. There’s still light out here, not much, but enough. When you find it, keep it alive. Keep the lighthouse lit, there are souls drowning in the dark. Just hold on to it because we’re counting on you.
Ü
Reader malfunction,
line cutter,
to old to care,
a computer error,
a frazzled attendant
a teacher,
a memory,
a printer out of paper,
a router auto reset,
empty paper towel roll,
…empty toilet paper roll,
empty box of dusters,
memory,
sweep,
memory,
vaccum,
memory,
Thomas,
memory,
almost out of gas,
line cutter,
to old to care,
slow petrol pump,
memory,
memory,
skip 15 songs,
memory,
phone call with a sweet lady,
memory,
call home,
memory,
Pay Bill,
memory,
rage,
memory,
love,
memory,
kind…
…patience,
…silence,
…patience,
…silence,
…patience,
…peace.
Dear Sister
May these words traverse the Iris
and find you in Oblivion.
I know you’re scared,
but I need you to wake up.
There’s to many of them.
I need your help.
I’m falling short.
They’re breaching the walls of Eden.
I need you to smell the smoke.
I need you to see the fire.
I need you to hear the screams.
I need you to hear the alarm.
It’s time.
The world needs us,
now more than ever.
It’s going to take all of us to turn them around.
I’m doing everything I can.
I need you to wake up!
Sober
My fingers will dig into flesh,
I’ll scream peeling away the rage,
blood will pour out,
staining the carpet.
The cracks will reopen,
my chest will feel cold.
Fury will be my companion,
reeking havoc on those I Love.
Muscles will tighten in the cold,
I’ll rip them from bone,
Every nerve will die.
I’ll walk out in the sun a bag of bones,
cold and long since dead, for them.
In spite of you,
I will Love them.
Tomorrow’s Deep End
I know it’s coming,
It does every year.
No matter how much good
you throw at me,
I will never forget
what you’ve taken.
Save your platitudes,
they only serve as insults.
The Dreams,
The Gifts,
The Storms,
The Kulning,
…The Rage,
…The Numbing,
As if it’s some scale for you to balance.
I hope you fucking choke on them.
Dear Diary
For just today—can you go fuck yourself.
I’m just not in the mood
for the incessant ramblings of a mad man.
The dragon sleeps,
leave it be.