aroundtheneareststar

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 31

Horizon Event

You and I

Stand together

At the edge of the world

Watching finality come into view

Nothing ever feels like it's really over

Until it's done

The stars are falling

The clocks are stopping

Everything known can't be relearned

I hold your hand

As the sun sets on all of us

The prophets failed to remark upon

How beautifully apocalypse appears

The spectacle of explosion

The grace of falling

The art of the end

You look at me with tears in your eyes

I can't be sure why they're there

My tears in my eyes

Stir a similar question within you

How I wish I could answer it

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 30

Dorothy Cottonwood's History

Dorothy Cottonwood was born to two parents and an older brother in a too small hospital room. She was mostly healthy as an infant, though a few minor concerns crept their way into her being's periphery. She never cried as a baby.

Dorothy Cottonwood read many kinds of books as a child, though fantasy stories were her favorite. At night, while lying in bed, waiting for sleep to visit, she pictured herself as a magical witch, able to help and to hinder whoever she wanted.

Dorothy Cottonwood had few friends. She tried to connect with her peers, but there seemed to be a strange dissonance between her and the others. As if she spoke in frequencies barely perceptible to their ears. She ate lunch in whatever corner she could find.

Dorothy Cottonwood worked at a corner store once she was old enough. She liked to keep the register particularly organized, with bills pressed flat and coins neatly stacked. Her manager gave her shit for it. An old regular stared at her at least once a week.

Dorothy Cottonwood failed a geometry test. Her father and mother looked at her with a new dullness in their eyes, one previously reserved for her brother. Her brother was away for school, so she couldn't ask him how to protect herself from it. She talked less at dinnertime.

Dorothy Cottonwood laid on the roof of her childhood home. She found comfort in staring at the multitude of stars, that infinite array of minuscule diamonds that returned each night. They reminded her how small everything was, despite how large it all felt. She sometimes would fall asleep up there.

Dorothy Cottonwood was accepted into her third choice college. There was lax fanfare, pushed excitement for something that could only be described as "not-the-worst-case-scenario." Her parents got her a hat with the college's logo on it, which she never wore. She was glad to be moving out of state.

Dorothy Cottonwood met her future husband at a party she was begrudgingly attending with her roommate. There was no spark between them, but he kept looking at her. They had a literature class together the following semester, which cemented their vague connection. His name was Dalton. He knew very little about narrative structure.

Dorothy Cottonwood ran down the sidewalk on bare feet. She held her uncomfortable shoes in a frustrated fist and the wind pulled her hair from her ears. Though the pebbles and glass on the ground would callus her feet, she felt a new kind of freedom running. Just running.

Dorothy Cottonwood went home twice before graduating. First for a Christmas, and second for her brother's funeral. He died in a car accident.

Dorothy Cottonwood wanted to be an archivist but instead became a middle school teacher. She didn't care for children, but figured it would be a nice thing to do while still figuring the trajectory of her life. She worked at the same school for thirty years.

Dorothy Cottonwood got married to Dalton. She kept her last name. Her love for him was real, but never quite right, like her heart didn't beat quick enough. They bought a house together that she filled with furniture she thought was pretty. Her favorite fixture was their giant ornate bookshelf. They almost got divorced twice.

Dorothy Cottonwood rarely talked to her mother as an adult. Her mother resented her for not having children. Dorothy didn't mind, though there was now a subtle quiet in her life.

Dorothy Cottonwood loved to paint flowers. On Sundays, she would buy a bouquet from the florist on the corner and paint them with imported oil paints. She hung up her paintings around the house in thrifted frames, but refused to sign them. Whenever an errant guest blew through, she claimed she found the paintings at a garage sale.

Dorothy Cottonwood tried to mourn the loss of her brother, her father, and eventually her husband, but the grief only ever materialized in a light drizzle. People were sorry for her losses and she wanted to reject their apologies. But a cold smile was all she could muster. Maybe the occasional tear, if she focused.

Dorothy Cottonwood always wore sweaters. She liked feeling warm. She liked feeling soft things against her arms. She never learned how to crochet or knit, but her neighbor did and gifted Dorothy a new sweater twice a year. In return, she baked them scones.

Dorothy Cottonwood returned to fantasy novels in her old age. She found herself reading simpler and simpler stories as the years rolled on. One day, she found herself clutching a picture book, hardly able to make out the words. The picture showed a wizard wearing a starry robe. She stared at it for hours.

Dorothy Cottonwood forgot her own name before she forgot her childhood home's address. Every night in the final week of her life, she dreamt of laying on the roof again. In the dream, she rolled off the rough, sloped surface and sank into a pond of night sky.

Dorothy Cottonwood died alone, after orbiting seventy-five times around the nearest star. 

A universe died with her.

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 29

hot water treatment

i want to be boiled like a lobster

metamorphose from gray to red

have hot tub delusion fill up my skull

feel the bubbles burn into my skin

i'll submit to the steam and the scalding

be reduced into bones and wet lard

my memory of cold will evaporate

as i marinate in water and flame

they can serve up my corpse with some butter

use hammers to shatter what's left

may the toxins be killed with my body

may my broth not taste like regret

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 28

paper crown

my paper crown is tearing

reduced to crumpled scraps

with power fraught and flimsy

I'm forced to face my lack

simplicity's a virtue

that cannot always reign

sometimes it serves its purpose

sometimes it's torn in vain

the intricate has reason

the complex plays its part

the basic's good beginning

but what's beyond the start

and can a piece of paper

play the role of gold

the quality of symbol

viability foretold

my cardboard throne is caving

my plastic scepter breaks

perhaps this is a lesson

that more is what it takes

more in time and effort

cement will outlast glue

if i wish to be lasting

a paper crown won't do

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 27

Trap became Kill became Maul

I must be alone to be clean

Must whiten the brown and the green

The muck made by others

Is destined to smother

My life and what it can mean

So I hunt for the rodents and bugs

In corners and underneath rugs

Fill up my house

With poison for mouse

Buy in bulk those enabling jugs

Then wait for the time to be right

Eye the traps every day and each night

I want to know peace

Have this need simply cease

I march on through this perilous fight

The cheese in the traps may be molding

The flypaper blank and not holding

The corpses I crave,

These pests won’t behave,

But I’d sooner grow fangs than start folding

If I can’t be pure, I’ll be cruel

Be the predator, beast, or the ghoul

That ends soaked in blood

Of the vermin whose flood

Made my perfect a putrid cesspool

My bare hands will do most of the work

A monstrous pair gone berserk

Ripping and smashing

Tearing and crashing

‘Til stillness is all that will lurk

The blame for this savagery falls

On the creatures who hid in my walls

I tried to play nice

With the roaches and mice

But then trap became kill became maul

Now a demon is how I remain

Deformed from the anger and pain

Though it’s strange when I see

Reflections of me

As the image says I look the same

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 26

in frigid grip

cold 

hands around

my neck

are they

my own

frostbitten fingertips

too much blood

or a

lack thereof

pressed wind

pipe makes it

easy to float away

into the frozen

sea where 

lungs swim

amongst hesitation

diaphragm whales sing their

melancholic songs to 

bitter

the sweet

within absolute

temperatures whose

jurisdiction reaches

from thumb to

pinky 

even if the nails

fall off and fracture

on the icy floor

when you are being choked

attention is drawn more to 

the choking itself rather

than the quality

of the hands

doing it

though

for the

broken record

they are

very

very 

cold

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 25

a gift called Love

is it magic

or is it community

is it wonder

or is it care

i break tiny pieces

off of myself

each one as unique

as each recipient

there is somehow

more than enough left over

never diminished

always intact

a sort of miracle

a sort of truth

by giving

you receive

by feeling

you are felt

by knowing

you are known

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 24

Winter's Burden

Bare bones of a tree

Held by a vast glinting white

Pray for spring's rebirth

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 23

we stopped talking

i stare

at the same face

in the same picture frame

in the same dusty corner of my mind

is it ethical to donate a personal portrait

will some bored teen buy it cheap

as an ironic piece of specificity

hung with posters and polaroid prints

again gathering dust, but somewhere else

i can’t get rid of a part of myself

call it trauma recall or phantom limb syndrome

but removal won’t make much of a difference

i will always carry it

my neurons’ retinas have been burned with the image

the burden has become me

maybe i should clean up that corner

or turn the picture to face the wall

something better, remembered on purpose

something better, diminished through time

i can’t unmake the minutes

what’s done is done

and we are done

and still i am haunted

and never will i know the peace of before

any peace will be colored by that hanging picture that i cannot lose or destroy

a picture better suited for a garage sale or thrift store

lost amongst the refuse of other years

other lives

how i wish it could be so simple, mundane

how i wish it could just be over

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 22

pickled heart

stinging vinegar

copious salt

and dill

keep it safe

in a jar

in the dark

will last years

longer than before

clinical preservation

better flavor

for the next set of teeth

that sink in

this gouge at my center

it'll scab over

or so i hope

and if in the process

i find myself finished

at least a piece of me will be something like fine

suspended in brine

suspended in time

certain with a shelf-life longer than mine

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 21

oil and water

trying to bust down the door to your brain

and make you understand what i’m actually after

I Don’t Want What You Have

not interested in taking your jewels from your neck

not looking to buy a set of my own

We Are Not The Same

i am not your threat

i won’t be your legacy

Our Lives Diverge At This Point

those stones you discarded or threw at the desperate

they are the basis of my foundation

Our Difference Is Something You Need To Accept

fulfillment can be found in many colors

we yearn for distinct and distant shades

Unclench Your Fist About Me

i’d prefer full release

over a labored mediation

I Must Be On My Way

don’t cling to the me you’ve sculpted in vain

i give you permission, encouragement to destroy it

There Is Nothing Productive About Holding On

we’ll search out our paradises in faraway galaxies

proving how alien we’ve been to each other

This Incompatibility Is Okay

there may be things to miss

but this is the only way in which the resentment will dissolve

The Burden Is Not Worth Carrying

understand

say goodbye

This Is Our End

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 20

practically a month in dog weeks

dalmatian rorschach test

as i stand at the edge of the park

smoking a cigarette i found in my pocket

i don’t think these pants are mine

for a minute the haze i exhale

perfectly matches

a cloud on the horizon

almost beautiful

if it didn’t smell like 

bad rot

border collie critical thinking

as i sit on a bench

next to a tree

the branches

holding

a knot of twigs and leaves

it’s ugly

i think

then i see a bird fly into it

and remember that homes exist

something catches in my throat

that i can’t cough out

chihuahua trial of patience

as i walk to the bus stop on the corner

i want to rub my skin off my hands

and feel

some sort of clean

again

it feels like the bus

will never come

and if it does

i will run out 

into the street

to meet it

won’t somebody

please

chase after me

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 19

migration faltered

i fly along the path inside my mind

and leave behind the home that i once knew

a warmer place should not be hard to find

and yet it always seems to dodge my view

the world is cold to anyone like me

the trees are bare the lakes are sheets of ice

hostility is all that i can see

there’s nothing here to welcome or entice

and so my wings grow slack from overuse

i then descend without much of a say

a meteor who gravity seduced

an angel who was lost along the way

if i am damned for failing to arrive

perhaps there’s hope in how long i survived

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 18

warm winter with snow

sour sleet on a wearing roof

the hours grow longer as daylight shrinks

is the stark sun cold enough to burn

is the dreary overcast protecting us from something

unique snowflakes halfmelt into homogeneous slush

frostbitten noses overheat under wool

both clouds and smoke drop ashy debris

chimneys welcome draft while expelling warmth

some law of nature written in the thermometer

begs for balance to be found in degrees

but as subzero scrapes against the walls of our ovens

such a law is asking us to freeze and to cease

so we countersue with invention and a mediator is brought in

and we compromise with discomfort and quiet constant dryness

while cold and hot are divided into legally distinct entities

only ever equal in the semantics of temperature

we can have a warm winter with snow on the ground

both extremes simultaneously instead of a lasting middle

a dripping frost that could otherwise consume

instead crystallizes or liquefies

as we now demand

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 17

disposal proposal

i took a pen from the gas station checkout counter

meant to mark receipts

and used it to sign a sympathy card

for my best friend's family

because she's dead

i threw the pen away

after writing my name

and was almost tempted

to throw the card too

let it all fester

in a heap outside of me

strip myself of this grief

or at least all its logistical trappings

but if everything's disposable

then what's the point of keeping

why would i cling to her memory

instead of letting it decay

the free things and the cheap things

may end up feeding landfills

but sometimes they are all we have

and all that push us on

it's not the ink

it's not the card

it's the gesture

it's the feeling

getting rid and letting give

are similar in motion

but differ in motivation

and hope for the outcome

so the pen is in the garbage

the card is in my fist

if i can't get rid of this emotion

then i'll let myself give this

and make this cheap pain

this free pain

be worth something more

than a reason to steal a pen

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 16

decorated corpse

certain evergreens

protest their own submission

want to last beyond

a winter decoration

needles covering

their cone shaped bodies

some sharp enough

to stir second thoughts

be the porcupine

deny the tinsel embarrassment

and if there is persistence

at least go out stinging

ostentatious bulbs

applied with quaint frustration

still prodding from the pine

won't stop the string light tying

center of attention

wrapped boxes at the foot

perplexed by strange tradition

the hostage holds a star

perhaps they will catch fire

to spite the situation

melting frost on window panes

and skin on growing skulls

but such a turn in favor

is not the season's story

and yule log has claimed the role

of burning piece of wood

so they stand until disposal

until the year turns over

then thrown away or in the yard

to wait for warmer months

when the evergreen has yellowed

they get their wish long after

to burn, but now in fire ring

spectacle again

until the bitter end

[aroundtheneareststar]

December 15

greater than

headlights refracted

through car window raindrops

look like the stars to me

this world is something greater

than any blunt sum

formed from pieces scattered in the same universe

everything is a system

everything is a collection

a network of existence

found in every bug

there is beauty

in the paradox

of simplicity and complexity

of individuality and community

found in the negligible expanses of ourselves

and in this ever-present state

I can compare the infinite cosmos

to water on glass

and know 

that part of me is water

and part of me is star