writersblockletters

[writersblockletters]

It was as if I had been shut off’ed and put away for rain long in the future. I regurgitated old lines of bygone schematics, and dusted the cobwebs. I said hello to myself, and greeted cordially “aye” in reply, in return

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There's a screensaver of the coast on my desktop.

Of a sunrise in a coral cave

Overlooking the ocean. 

I believe I can see the sun rise

it's warming rays causing sensations

In a young man, with his toes sunk deep

Into that coarse dark stuff. 

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Be Still

time and energy are to her the same

neither tempted, corrupted, or swayed

by gentle words, or pointed persuasion

nor the edge of a blade

if one desires the bird to land

There is no sum in your coffer

large enough to coax or command

a change in course, in flight, in nature

it is for her alone to decide

if she should stay in the hand that you offer

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Cruel devil to the moon the dog he did cry

Poor bastard, she wept her softest reply

they sat in still wonder

for the one who but must,

and the other who could not

each shed their tearful goodbye

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Mantra of the weary

every pain endured shall be a pain forgotten

and in this sense, is hardly pain at all.

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The Murungai was a peculiar type of self-domesticated fowl. Fowl in the avian sense, of course, but an apt vehicle of critique as well. At least to some, who believe the criteria for crying fowl is having land, and being on it. In the debate halls of the society, battle lines had been drawn over the classification of the Murungai bird people. One side argued that because these creatures possessed tools of neolithic quality and traded amongst themselves that they ought to be considered indigenous caretakers of the island on which they can be found. The other side believed they were best fried in a wok. The debate was inevitably settled on the subject after the conquest of the northernmost principality, bringing back the statue. The Society is now in full agreement on the cultural significance of this relic, now that it sits in their royal museum of antiquities.

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things are already different only now do I recognize green protrusions as something significant that these shrieks and growls could organize from the scattered consonants to the wandering vowels assembling a sort of social lubricant from bulb to blister to raging howls emerging growth from penitence

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I dreamt about moose the night after it happened.

We were at walnut Grove, playing on the playground.

Well, he was. I heard him first. With his snoring kind of joyous grunts. He was nose first in the barkdust. Running along. Sniffing to his hearts content.

He drug a line through the dust, straight into a little curb where he promptly flipped on his back and rolled in the greenest grass.

I turned around for a minute. When I looked back he was gone. The playground empty. Then I realized I'd never taken him there. Never taken him anywhere.

I hope God is real. I hope moose gets to smell and run and play anywhere he feels. If not, he can have full run of my dreams.

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Tired Butterfly

landing softly upon his petal.

Though it was she in need of rest

It was he with sustained vigor.

Thought weary in a world of one

her flight to higher highs

reminded him the world is bigger.

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I read my poetry to my cat.

He's pretty thoughtful

Though a bit critical perhaps.

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Dawn

she enters, quiet and graceful.

at first in waves, in streams

through pains, she floats

down from heaven to earth

to me.

for every rude awakening,

she is their softest counter.

mornings would not be special.

pointless even, without her.

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Ecdysis Exodus

I've made mistakes

I didn't know until I did

Big bad ones

And there's no way to be

just gotta sit in it, let it wash over.

There's a tub, and it's full

bleach and salt and razor blades

And I have to willingly submerge myself

until I am new

Then writhe upon the ground as a snake

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We like our murders

Yes we do

As long as they're off screen