Scrap mettle

Are these panting dreams,
Or are we pacing things?

A house that hides you so well
Blinds down and who can tell?
I meet you over and over again
Is it sinking in?

I can’t say
who’s to say
It’s okay
if we all fade away

Pink pastel powder blue sky
but there’s gold refinery
and glowing sense of white light
behind everything

Fakery or falsified calcification

I’ve bled you, poisonous, from my skin. Dug down into my heart and pulled you up by the roots. I’ve chewed up the thoughts of you and spat them out, in passing, on the ground. I’ve left to ruin and rot the cores that fed unfertile seeds you tried to plant inside me.

Those seeds gave breath to nothing but desires of death.

Failure is a heavy-handed image with particulars in trust and hate. Strong feral words with pitfalls and potholes and routes that dead-end against mis-relayed synapses in our mixed-up brains.

Wish I could quell the qualms coming. Reign in the scattered lightning flashing. Quarrel with the growing, blowing storm. But the watersheds are dry and the windbreaks went down and the trees we felled for our own demise. Papers and lanterns held in trembling hands to the sky. Set in water when we die.

For eternities, we’ll have to beat ourselves against this current and this wall. Hold against the torrent unstoppable. Oh gods, I hope you have a plan. Because I sure as fuck don’t.

Slipping knots from ropes around our throbbing throats. Burned by acid from the inside out. Sickness settles like bumps underneath the skin. Bubbles in between the skull and scalp. Hair raising, trying to accomodate, skin tight for want of space to spread.

You know what I’m talking about.
You pretend not to notice how rough it gets.
You try not to hear how bad it feels.

I speak in stereo, always with a voice that is not wholly my own. Some pastiche, homage, collage to greater smiths before me. I only hope to dust the ground with sweet sounds. I only hope to filter light into your mind. I only hope to make this pain palatable to you through stories.

Passing ghosts

Oh, I did everything I was told to do.
Everything everyone says or thinks you’re supposed to do.
But, ama-sa.
I’m still bleeding your blood out
Spilling myself for nothing on the carpet.
Can you help?

Sticks and stone could break these bones,
sure.
But who’s the one to throw?

Those without thorns
splinters
barbs in and underneath their skin.
Whoever hasn’t ever felt the burn
from the poisoned drugs we’re swimming in.

Have you drown yourself in sorrow yet?
How does the pity feel?
Worse than hate or regret.

So hit me in the stomach
and I’ll quit this belly-aching.
Reference god and men’s genitalia
You know I’m sure to bow down
A good girl to play along.

Tug this chain and get the good ones moving.
Crack a whip and brand a scar.
This horse has a few more feet left in ‘er.

The violence, the hatred of you
stirs in me the violence of a millenia.
Of ages and histories,
risen and fallen.
The aggressive anger of the bared teeth
of a people with a cut-down power.

My fight like lightbulbs
has all burned out.
I’m ash and crimson dust
at the feet of another vindictive dictator
I’m supposed to feel sorry for.

Do you fight with violence — bittersweet
and prick the bottoms of your victims feet
with poison needles that only sting when they stand too high?

I bet you had those guidelines handed down to you.
Have you inherited a world you like?
Is this earth the earth you thought?
Have you dipped a finger into your blood
and tasted the chemical demise?
Do you feel your roots going dry?

Have you even tried?

Images of a blood red moon
in my constellar arrangement
bleed planetary dust of atoms and a muse.
The words fuel madness
in a metaphorical sense
outside of the ring of your possible experiences.

I’m glad as gods you don’t understand.
You never did.
You never will.
Never heard but snatches of the words
with sounds attached to them.

My closure is a wall against a flood.
I’m only ever holding judgement back.
You have not been judged,
have not been cleared,
will not come out clean.

But wash your hands again, again, again. Please.
I have clean waters ready for you to ruin.
I have rotten flesh and meat and blood.

Blood is funny, we laugh at it.

Clouds shifted across a pale yellow sky the night before. The orbs were heavy laden in the color of blood, in the color of dirt, in the color of passion or love. The planet of a long forgotten past and tragic scars of all our coming faults aligned to the sun with a line like strings through the center of this green-and-blue-for-now sphere.

Dusty rose-shaped candles and pillars blocked in solid hue lit the breaking through of a blood red moon. Obscurred by the shadow of earth, it was the first of four. It was the last of ours. It was a the marking of a shift.

Drum beats uneven on a drum held slightly sideways. Finger picking lessons and checking on the cloud cover and dinner late for late comers, but the rest of us are full. Leaving left the fully covered moon and the flickering wind-blown flame to light our way.

Back up the road, little scattered sentences we spread across the floor. Find a random disconnection, finish an unknown sentence, and see the end we’re both anticipating. Wait, wait, wait until the light breaks through a hole in the clouds — not just obscured by darker ones. A sliver of the shadow left, counting moments breaths and wondering if the passing clouds will angle away just right.

The shadow fully passed and the candles were blown out. And we slept late and woke, one of us at a time, to sun bright glaring through full white puffy clouds. Shifting clouds to return to grey cover by post-noon.

Writing towards the destruction of a handful of old friends, waiting for experiences of sap boiling on someone else’s stove. Waiting for the petrol chemicals to carry me and my deer back south for a night, for now.

The government gave us a bit of money. I think we’ll spend it complicating, over-simplifying, flying. And in another turn or so, find ourselves deep east.

On being fully “grown”

“Adulthood is the age at which a person learns [they] must die…and accepts [their] sentence undismayed.”
-R. Heinlein in The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

A friend suggested: adulthood is being able to comprehend the impact of our actions on the larger whole, accepting the responsibility of this knowledge, and choosing to act accordingly.

I feel these are two aspects of one truth. There, I am sure, are many more ways to expound.
Thoughts?

Charcoal dust covers disasters and drifts in dreams

Neither you were your namesake, nor the other way round.

The two always splinter and divide like floodwaters must at sluice gates. You to the left and imaginary friends to the right. While the natural motion between you and those old timey ghosts split and splatter remnants of rememberances on the walls that urge you so carefully, so intentionally apart.

Pull up at the base of the neck and, every time, you’ll get the roots.

A moment to consider what and where the lines and cords and wires are drawn. At just the right height, those traps will clothes-line you dead. But the ghosts wil always remain.

I have memories of bad and worse moments stuck like needles in my brain, stuck like nettles in my hands, stuffed like splinters in between the valves of my heart. Blood still flows, now more so. But up from my belly, a sickness grows out from the wrongness of it.

Broken bits and barbs come off my skin like flakes brittle and peeling from the dryness of this shifting desert. I cry tears out here, but they are solid crystaline, and they cut my eyelids as they come.

If you were what you could have been: we would have loved, would have slept under blankets of your deceptions, yes — but the trick is I’d never have known or felt the misery that comes from having been turned over in the dark.

You might have tied the strings up first, but I’d have joined you and knotted us both in so tight we’d never get loose.

But you were untethered and you slipped away like screams silent and freezing exploding into space. And I am pulled by orbits you have already escaped.
The velocity between us was not so great.

I discard the rotted scraps and the nasty images and the dirty ugly pieces you thought were left grafted like branches, like arms of trees ancient into me. And in the sleight of hand of true tejina, I returned to what I once loved, pitied, understood.

Oh Ama-sa, you call from empty hallows and holy sacred places. Oh Ama-sa, I need you.

How badly have I abandoned those calls to the cold and to the night?
Would you believe it if I said, ney promised to never leave again?

Your end, tragic passionate, will shake me the third and fourth and fifth time, all the same.
And all the chaos you create will fall like ashen cinders at my feet.

We are gods eternal, mokutan.
I am fate and you are death.
Burn bright for me as you disintegrate, and I will ever light your way back around. Fly me up on flaming wing and I will ever lift you closer to the sun.

And in the end, we always will destroy one another.
Oh, it’s an unentitled crazy sad disaster, again and again.
To be sure.

When it rains

Something like storm clouds have been hanging about the corners of rooms and the edges of ceilings these days. When I go outside, the feeling of their weight becomes less — but I do not forget. Mist and fog and the damp spring ground only do so much to pull me away, back to myself, back to the bed of reality.

But within buildings and structures, those clouds still hang and as a citizen of the world, I am obligated to oblige them by oft being indoors. A member of society. A name on a record somewhere that proves I am contractually obligated to things I did not establish, did not agree to, perhaps do not want.

There is no consent or volition in the contracting out of one’s will to live.

A fire made by my own hands and food scorched by that very fire might help to alleviate some of this suffering. A bed made of rocks and sticks and bones. A drum and a found feather placed in my hair and the rattling of the shore being lapped by salt water.

And to leave behind these clouds to rain their ash down without my head hanging about — that might be a viable solution. Who, if anyone, is willing to go?

Oh, that’s right. As outlier, you accept going alone.
As the crow and the raptor flies.
Soon, I will spread wings instead of soothing butter on complacent bread.