piglrx-blog

[piglrx-blog]

A tree. Maybe we grew the wrong way, our brains external from the ground, ready to fall.

Check out my instagram! @piglrx

[piglrx-blog]

Get Ocean’s “Night Sky With Exit Wounds” asap. A new remarkable.

Do you know the rural Midwest? I feel it, always.

I was just there (Iowa). it was lovely and full. I had never seen so much sky. and the fields, although winter-brown while I was there, had a pulling richness to it all. I think the places we come from has powerful effects, for better or worse, on our psyche–and ultimately our writing. 

[piglrx-blog]

Beside the Iron Fence

flip      \       drop              \                 plop 

                baby bird on a sidewalk ---------------------------------------------------------------------                                                stop <-- chop <-- chip                 dainty dog to the eating

[piglrx-blog]

I held my feet overhead

to trail the leaving Sun,

to wade in pink pools and gold-tinted clouds

toward a vision of bluer skies. And others went before me

as bright,

moving moons

between the visible

galaxies whose planets

burped pilgrims outside the realms of

time. I swam with them and was

glad – our processions grew

from streams to rivers to narrow

oceans until united as the Whole

itself, the essence of Being glistening

and graceful and liquid, our joy at once complete by the sight

and embrace of the

languid Singularity

that had drawn our

tide along.

[piglrx-blog]

Blame, w. 2014

He found her sprawled across the floor, arms stretched in either direction. The bullet wounds were plain to see. He trembled as he brushed aside the matted hair to kiss her deathly face, and in so doing made a pact to see the murderer dead.

The sun bore over him as he dug the grave. Isolation removed the need for ceremony. He sweat both in agony and strife, bellowing at the dust that rose into his eyes. The covering was more suitable than ashes.

At last the bed was finished and he touched her canvas shroud in farewell, letting her fall from his arms into the ground where she would stir no more. The cicadas of the field made deafening chorus as he worked to fill the wounded earth.

"I will catch him," he swore aloud," and kill him where he stands! You will have peace, and so will I, when his soul burns in hell!"

There was silence from the locust tree as witness to his curse.

He found no one lurking within his property, though his search was thorough. It occurred to him that rope and pistol would better serve his aim. He placed them both about his waist and kept his hands at ready, pushing aside the cabin door to see what lay within.

The stained floorboards gave off the expected stench, but there was something else on the air that smelled sweetly foul. He stooped to wipe away the mess and discovered a broken bottle. The match he lit revealed several more. He put them on the table and counted half a dozen, not sure of what role they had played. They twinkled in the flickering light and were strangers no more.

"I didn't!" he gasped, as he remembered his drunken stupor. The shards of glass looked up at him and revealed a twisted man.

The trigger he pulled to stop the flooding memory, but his body fell without him and he stood, eyes open wide. He ran into oblivion, still hoping to be dead, and found himself at the locust tree beside the victim's grave. He cast the rope across a branch and tied himself a noose, intending to hang himself, if he could, and end the torment there.

The wind still catches the kicking ghost that strangles forevermore.