Friday, April 12, 2019

12

know more than your readers,
know more than you say,
know what's between the lines,
and how the rules really play.

Thursday, April 11, 2019

11

-but why don't you like me?
;because you ask too many questions
;and you talk too much
;and you don't listen

-how?
-why?
-what's wrong with the way I am?
-aren't we friends?

;I told you that you talk too much
;and you ask too many questions
;and your response was
;to talk more
;to ask more questions

-but we're good though, right?
-we're friends
-you're my bro

;I told you twice last week
;and at least once yesterday
;we're not friends

-can I be your friend?
;no
-then what are we?
;barely coworkers

-ok, but can you teach me
;do you remember what happened
;the last time I tried to teach you
;something
-bro, that never happened
-but you're my friend
-teach me something

;no
-why not
;because you still
;aren't listening

Wednesday, April 10, 2019

10

to the news and the world
now seeing space unfurled,
the unveiling,
the revealing,
a real. black. hole.

but you're not really seeing,
problems of gravity disbelieving,
gravity so strong,
even light falls down,
never leaves the hole.

you're seeing just the light
that escapes eternal plight,
distorted by bending,
going near but not ending,
doesn't enter into the hole.

that's how about sight works:
you see light that reaches earth,
not being sucked down,
past event horizon crown,
into a. black. hole.

Tuesday, April 9, 2019

9

1
knock
you're wondering what I'm doing.

2
knock knock
I'm no stranger to this curiosity,
likely to do things not apparent.

3
knock knock knock
but it tickles you that I can set up a gesture,
more complicated than the act of texting it,
just to send "I'm thinking about you ❤️"

Monday, April 8, 2019

8

it's silent at first.
the whispers in my head take a deep breath,
all at once, altogether, all... waiting

it's scentless at first.
my nose aches for fresh air,
grass and trees and wood...

it's still at first.
my eyes forget they're open and try to open again,
and then they close... waiting

then,
my heartbeat picks up the pace, pounding in my ears,
suddenly so loud I want to cover them,
but the sound comes from within
I can't block it out.
my hair pits feet stretch, filling my nose,
suddenly so cloying I want to bathe,
but the smell is merely me
I can't wash it away.
my dots return, like pixel displays swimming across my eyes,
clenching my lids only adds color, greens blues reds,
but the sight is part of my vision
I can't unsee.

then,
the quiet
the emptiness
the darkness
is not so
quiet
empty
dark

then,
it's saturated
with me.

--

"if you leave someone alone in the dark long enough, they lose themselves" - anonymous

Saturday, April 6, 2019

6

I open 
the doors to my soul
the floodgates to my innermost thoughts
the windows to my world
every Sunday, 5am, CST.

Friday, April 5, 2019

Thursday, April 4, 2019

4

when the fall comes, I'll be waiting
for the shoreline and the sea.
when the drift comes, I'll be watching
for change to come over me.

in the meantime, I'll be building
a plan where we can be.
in the meantime, I'll be dreaming
of a place where we are free.

Wednesday, April 3, 2019

3

I have more fun here than I've known
and learned more than I've ever hoped,
and grown more than I thought was left,
and laughed more than I've ever shown,
and belonged more than I thought I could,
and smiled more than I thought I should,
and befriended more than I thought I could,
and done better than mindfulness alone.

Tuesday, April 2, 2019

2

inspiration comes at a price

dreaming through novels,
when the words on the page only drew pictures in my head;
now, instead,
every line is a mission to be
reclaimed and reconfigured,
stolen out of context
and repurposed for my own will.

sleeping through nights,
when the scenes that played in my mind were merely dreams;
now, fleeting
possibility for every story and storyline
random neurons firing becomes
random connections aligning,
bottling the magic carefully.

every line that flows
between my eyes ears brain
is free for the snatching
is free for the ravaging
is free for my mind to take ahold and run
through the streets,
a thin starving gluttonous beggar
to whom nothing is sacred.

Monday, April 1, 2019

Regret

When I was little, I used to stop on the landing and stare at the half-height door that was faintly visible underneath the wallpaper. The frame had been stripped away and the doorknob removed, and I was forbidden from asking about it.

My older brother would tell me scary stories about the door, while he held a flashlight to his face and we crouched beneath the blankets late at night. He enlisted before I was old enough to know what that meant, went away. I stopped pausing on the landing, slowly stopped wondering, and eventually stopped seeing the shape of it at all.

But on the night before my fourteenth birthday, I woke to a cold sweat, a nightmare that felt so vivid and real in my mind, and I remembered the door and the stories.

I could hear the television roaring downstairs, canned laughter seeping into my bedroom, Nanny in the family room, keeping watch.

I crept to the railing overlooking the front hall, shaking too hard to bear passing by that door... "Sarah? Sarah?" I called, until she muted the tv and came to look up at me. She took in my pale face and clenched arms around my stuffed frog in the the ceiling light, and she raced up the stairs.

"Eilie, Eilie, are you alright?"

I shook my head.

"Was it a bad dream?"

I nodded.

She knelt in front of me. "Do you want to come downstairs and sit with me for a while?"

I started shaking again with the thought of passing by the door, and she wrapped her arms around me.

"Okay, not downstairs. Come here," Sarah wrapped her arm around the shoulder and led me back into my bedroom, turning on the lamp by the door. It cast comforting shadows around my room. "Why don't you tell me about it?" She closed my bedroom door behind us.

"T-the door. On the l-landing."

"Door? What door?"

I buried my face in the frog, wiping tears on its soft, squishy head. "Sean used to... he used to tell me stories, at night, in the dark. When he left, I- I started to forget, stopped seeing it. B-but now it w-won't g-go away."

"Oh, Eilie." She held me close and started rocking me back and forth until I felt the sobbing subside. "Your brother is doing good work. You'll see him again. Do you want to show me the door?"

I shook my head.

"Do you want me to go check the landing?"

I shook my head harder.

"Eilie, what has gotten into you? I've never seen you like this before. Why don't we turn on all the lights, and you can stand at the top of the stairs like you did just a few minutes ago, and I'll go check on the landing. That way, you're not alone, you can see me the whole time, and I can make sure everything is alright."

I stopped shaking my head. "You don't think I'm being silly?"

"Not at all. Maybe it's time I told you how I handled my bad dreams. I'll even let you borrow one of my books about it."

Sarah was very careful about who touched her books, and I gazed up at her in wonder, my face still streaked, but distracted. "Okay."

"Okay." She let go of me. "I'm not going far, just going to turn on the hall light, and then I'll be right back."

I nodded.

Sarah stood up, pulled open my bedroom door, and reached around the wall to the lightswitch. The darkness in the hallway scurried away, and she came back to me. "Are you ready?"

I shook my head, but stood anyway, and she accompanied me back to the railing.

"It will be okay. I'll be right here, I'll come right back, okay?"

I sniffled and nodded.

She walked slowly down to the landing, and then looked back at me. I pointed at one of the walls, and she peered at it. "Wha- what? There is a door here. Or there used to be. I don't know why I never saw it before." She glanced up at me. "Oh sweetie." She raced back up the stairs and took me back into my room.

Sarah shut the door behind us and led me to my bed. "I'll stay with you tonight, okay? I'm not going anywhere. And tomorrow, I'll talk with your Mom and Dad, okay?" She threw back the covers and laid down.

I curled up against her, and didn't fall asleep for a long time.

more regret

1

when you're in over your head
and the water's rising fast,
when the tide's come too quick
and your strength just won't last,

but you have no fear of drowning
because you know how to swim...

when the miles flying by
and the road speeding past,
when traffic rears its head
and the wind tears at your mast,

but you have no fear of crashing
because you know what's at risk...

when you've got a team you know
and a boss you can trust,
when someone's got your back...
you won't fear the crunch.

Saturday, March 23, 2019

Unititled (23 March 2019)

say one thing for shining,
your emoji say you're smiling,
but "mistaken" murders mysteries
on how you're really feeling.

curiosity betrays disinterest,
asking don't imply commitment,
but word-weighted  histories
on how you're not quite convinced.

Friday, March 8, 2019

but

|watch you in the cand|
|ights have all gone d|
|ou" and i can feel it|
|e you" today is the d|
| it bleeding your "i |
|i love you" your "i l|
|love you" today is th|
|e day that i love you|
|assed the future's ri|
|'t finish last today |
| is the day that i...|
 
--
background text from "The Emergency" by BT

Thursday, March 7, 2019

49

In 2133, Doc Finnegan had been dead for one hundred and thirteen years. In 2133, he published his forty-ninth posthumous short story.

Doc could have been called a prolific writer. He wrote until his death, at the ripe age of 92, while seated at his computer. What he had been writing has been lost to the sands of time. Literally.  Whatever he was working on, if it had been finished would be released god knows when; if it hadn't been finished, it was sitting in the drafts, locked away in his account where nobody could reach it.

He used online publishing platforms to release his stories, and that was where his audience found him. The most generous of estimates suggested he might have written several stories in the time between posting two, as they went out every Sunday morning, scheduled in advance. But how far in advance was a matter of rumor alone.

In 2021, as Doc's most devout fans were mourning the one year anniversary of his passing, a new story appeared on his website. It was a few days before anyone noticed, but the release rocked the community. Doc's estate released a statement that it had no access to his online accounts, but there was no evidence that they had been breached. The only thing they found was a small bank account quietly continuing to pay the hosting fees; it had several more years of funds, and was continuing to receive deposits from advertising revenue. Language specialists were brought in to evaluate the work, and came to the conclusion that it was genuine.

Five more stories were released that year, then four in the following year, and three in each '23 and '24. The rate continued to slow until 2080, when the web domain went up for renewal, and the small account had insufficient funds. Shortly after the domain went back out to the open market, a bold fan bought it for a considerable sum and donated it back to the estate, but it was too late. As the estate had no access to the accounts, and neither did anyone else, it sat empty.

In late 2097, a web crawler discovered 12 stories on a gauche URL; it was the blogging platform's default and free domain, and it had automatically switched over when it lost Doc's DNS in 2080.

In 2098, a petition to the host platform swept the world, to restore the DNS settings. That petition was logged into the world records books for most verifiable signatures. But they said no. It was a paltry effort to forward visitors of the domain to the gauche URL, but the settings were locked to those without the passwords.

In 2120 brought no new posts, despite fans watching fervently during the months surrounding the one hundredth anniversary of Doc's death, but another one posted the following year.

In 2133, one story was posted, and like the others, it showed up on a Sunday quite unexpectedly. After forty-nine posthumous releases, no one yet had been able to successfully predict the pattern, ascertain with any degree of confidence, when the next would come, and no one knew how many might remain.

And so the world watched, and waited.

Sunday, March 3, 2019

playful

1
lean around in front of me
take the tail end in your mouth
bite it
swallow
smile and dodge my questions

Saturday, January 26, 2019

Steep

A darkly stained cabinet; walnut.
A teapot, ceramic; clean but used.
A shrine; meditative, calming.
A drawer; overflowing with tea.

Thursday, January 17, 2019

Untitled (17 January 2019)

I still hear you in the breeze
See your shadows in the trees
Holding on, memories never change

 - "Monody" by TheFatRat

I want to take you and show you heaven, my heaven. It's a real place, somewhere you can visit for an afternoon or a weekend. You can go and sit on the edge of the world, watch eagles climb thermals and dive for their dinner. You can sleep among the trees and watch the sun set through the leaves.

I want to take you and show you heaven. I have a second kit you can use. I'll provide shelter from the storm, fire for your meals, and directions to show you the way.

I want to take you and show you heaven. You'll need to bring blankets and food.

I want to take you and show you heaven, my heaven. There's no stairs in the way. I want to share the green waves and deep bottomless sky. I want to return to where I meditate all day.

--
Mirrored on Pillowfort
Mirrored on Manyverse
%413aYVQz9iywFW2pd1zpaWGPuw6z7MOQQGwFqSP9I6M=.sha256

Monday, January 7, 2019

Obeisance/Yester

Feie in the morning,
his feet worn and dried,
calloused from the walking,
swollen from the pride.

Feie in the daytime,
his feet sore and raw,
resting on the roots
napping against yew.

Feie in the after,
his feet like hardened stone,
numb and bruised and shaking,
but does not walk alone.

Feie in the nighttime,
his feet standing strong,
his eyes lifting upward,
his heart filled with song.

Feie travels lightly,
his bag almost bare,
no rations packed inside,
food in the forest there,

just some old straw,
wrappings for his feet,
a blanket for the chill,
a rod for his fete.

Feie walks hither
not aimlessly to yon,
obeisance is owed
to whom he calls gods.