Rhythms, pacing, meter, rhyme.

So much work to do.
Let’s try to stay just barely ahead of the pace of influx, shall we?

Adding to the list:
Alter perception.
See through the lies.
Cut up reality and take sides.

Take a shot at experiencial living.
Take to eating, drinking, sleeping
much too much.
Corral a virture inside your darkest fear.
Give a shit.

How am I supposed to be able to keep up?

Had a lightning storm in a glass jar the other day. Like lightning bugs, it only went off when I shook it. I kept shaking and shaking, waiting for the glass to crack, but it never did. Instead, the exoskeletons of those lighting clouds broke apart and spilled the storm all over the insides. I’m still using handfuls of paper towels to try and wipe it up.

Making bigger messes than I can attest to.
Smile, the camera is being trained on you.
Do your convictions track with the way you pretend to be?
Do you feel the heat of a sinking, stinking reality?
Am I getting through to you?
Are we?

Middle of winter is coming and the ice might just begin thawing, but I’m having the hardest time staying awake throughout these long nights.

Do you have some recommendations for how I might create another safe space inside the ones we’ve already destroyed, demolished, laid to waste?

I have my hand in my pocket, hand in my pants, hand in the air —
but I don’t feel love anywhere.

Guess I’ll just have to wait.

Sounds escape, click and clatter, snap and snacker, against raw eardrums on a star-filled night

You are what you are, broken – violent – angry and, yes sure, resilient. But against what, oh we don’t say.

I am nothing but a moth alighting on your arm. Brush my dust off and dust me away. I sweep under your rug so easily.

Is this ring around my finger burning marks in the lines beside my eyes? Drawing lines down from these permanent frowning lines to make meaningful hashtags across the cross-hatches of my ribs?

Is this what cracking up feels like? Slipping loose on the lies and wires, letting go and letting fall and fail all the weak pathetic snatches of dreams we thought, for a brief moment back there, we were dreaming together.

Oh, but love. I’m awake now.
Time to start digging ourselves a couple of holes.
Holes from gunshots and wounds from shovels digging into clay and stone and sand.

We’re breaking the best moments, shattering the glasses and scattering the descant stars like new beginnings against the backs of our eyes.

I’ve got a candle and a lighter to set you alight.
Still want to get close?


Sorrow like sea mist
soaks through dripping
into clinging rags
of my tattered-up heart.

I might be singing,
oh but I’m sinking
faster than you think.
Drowning down
past the places
you can’t even imagine.

Tomorrow starts,
burns up another moment
in the irradiated vibrations
of the slowing down of time.


The symbol carved in my belly is the same one burned into your hands.
We only ever stand at right angles to one another.
The rules don’t bend to account for us.
Exceptions we except but never accept at every single goddamn turn.

Because I’m aggression and you’re defense.
I’m innocence and you’re violence.
I am woman, you are man.
I am male, you are female.
I am one, you are two.
We are both and neither, through and through.

Dicks are strong but detestable.
Pussys are weak and pathetic.
Whichever you say I am is fine, fine, fine.

Exes and Ohs. Whys and exes.
Define, convict, defend, defeat and end the enemies on the other side of you.

The perspective at which you stand is no different than this: a high precipice from which the world crumbs and bows down at your feet. And you wonder why the grass grows black as you trample it down. Stamp the mud from your shoes when you go inside. Only take them off to feel the constructed structure underneath your tender toes.

A stray rock or a splinter will splay you out, lay you down flat.

If it’s a critique we’re giving, oh we’ve got lots. If it’s arguments we’re starting and fights we’re fighting, don’t worry we’ve got gloves and defenses and rings we can take one another down in.

Is mercy and, oops, forgiveness, second chances and sym/empathy the other person(s) need(s)?
Well, then fuck ’em.

We can’t, at this stage, be put out.
Got a schedule and a tempo to keep. Don’t slow us down.

We’ll burn through the gas giants before we’re through and be out there, all alone.

Shaken by an earthquake, in spirit, respectively.

These eyes and this mind see worlds others (who imagine vast differences between us) have never, not only seen, but considered. Don’t ask how those platforms, those alternate vistas, those other-worldly metaphors got opened. The knife that spliced them into reality was rusty and unclean and you wouldn’t want to tear those holes into your pretty skin.

But, on the cutting table in the breaking season, there wasn’t really a better option. So under we go like the dead and near-dying on chloroform. Unforming shapes and spaces as they bend down to touch the realness of the moment’s toes.

We all seven billion stood separated and apart, blinking into the light and against another cold slap-in-the-face wind. We braced ourselves against cold we’d never felt. But in long designated ruts cut into roads we wanted so desperate to remain open — in that debilitating cold — we had no jacket, no cover, no plan against the unknown.

After days and ages, we just shriveled up and packed up and backed out and told ourselves, in our hearts of good intentions and unintentioned endings, things would be alright on the other side.

Has it, I wonder, been all right?
I ask only now on the other side of too late. On the other end of another impressive mistake.

But if I’m mistaken, would I know it through the regret, through self-doubt, and through the inability to let go of the things I think I loved?


I suppose at least the knowing is some kind of homecoming.
Like smoke from a candle signifies that it must still be giving light.

My smoke and ash show some kind of signs of life.

May + Gait

Make a prize appear in the brightest sunlight / Close yr doors and windows carefully / Stain yr witches’ clothes bright red / Speak beneath trees.
May woke and licked her lips, first thing, tasting salt on her tongue and tasting yellow in her eyes. The sheet was slipped between her big toe and her little ones. She pulled it straight and crumpled out of the snow-like layers to stand tenderly on the cold and rough wood floor.

I’m calling out/ You don’t, can’t hear it / These timbers sing in alternating timbres / We hear only ever what we want.
Gait was feeling grey upon waking. Nothing like the morning before yesterday. Blue auras had filled the library to the brim. Gait was going to have to sift through the troubles of others until the first sopranos came in for the morning lessons. Would the room even be clear by then?

There was never a way to be sure. Gait lifted the lid of the box of music and selected a few poems to practice. Maybe teach, if it seemed like the kind of thing others would be into.

Gait opened the windows to let light and air in. An unexpected moth fluttered in, wafted above the age eaten books, drifted through the door jamb, and settled inside the kitchen on the rim of a jar of plum jam. As if cuing the rest of the day to occur, just then, the door opened and in came the sopranos, first and seconds together.

Gait was ill-prepared.

A micro-flash fiction written by Ori + Rei over the span of, possibly, five minutes.


You slip and slide between my fingers, disappearing into space my three-dimensional and linear-timed mind cannot comprhened. I lose you and miss you, every time.

The fall from orbit back to Earth is insecapable, and so I’ll burn up until I no longer exist but in carbon forms and particulate.

If from those ashes, anything arises — perhaps it was the magician you set alight, all along.
But, the pull of the sun and moon in this semi-eliptical orbit is growing on me.

Full light to new moonless sky. We danced a dance together, you and I.

I was never, ever ready or willing to let you go. So love became confined in boxes stashed on secret shelves and, between the two of us, they were checked on every night. The cycles turned in circles around us, spinning wheels like threads through woven tangles of dimensions as they vibrated reality into one, two, three sided space.

We missed a step and hiccuped the whole ordeal. I never, ever thought that you could let me down but set me out in space and watch me fall.

Now, pulled through the atmosphere I’m getting hotter and the weight of my bones is giving in. The pressure of the air is breathing heavy in my tone-deaf ears. And I feel the inside collapsing like a crumpled ball of plastic wrap. Sticky stuck together and we’ll never get the old shapes back.

Of course, this was only built in through evolution, so who are we mourning?
The grass is green as it grows and brown as life tramples it down.

Naturally, my body circulates on spinning tops.
Naturally, I follow wherever you go.

The internet is a dream slayed.

The scorpion fatality on Mortal Combat
is forgiveable
if we are talking on a cosmic scale.

A set of left-handed scissors is
probably not as bad as it seemed last night

Dancing with someone
you feel sorry for
is cracked
as old linolieum.

Crying over lost love is why I need to get a bike light.

The worst feeling in the world
(is) damaged and useless.

Remorse in tradegy is how my babysitter bribed me.

“I got 99 problems and a bitch is-”
outdated and cliche.
The road not taken
is why I didn’t call back.

A simple life is all fun until someone shoots off a gun.
Busting a cap in yo’ face is destructive, in a phoenix sense.

A hurtful word is never expected again.

This hospital food is disappointing,
like lukewarm bath water.
A bland bloody mary is out of control.
Oral surgery is better
with ice cream on top.

Pulling the plug on someone
is my 2nd
favorite thing
to do on Halloween.

A dream worth remembering is the secret ingredient
(in gramma’s soup.)
What I gave up smoking for is not going to agree with my stomach.
The moonless is sky is like chopping…apples(?)

Failure to grasp a simple fact is like the funniest part of the movie!
–Keanu Reeves is not what I intended at all.
The stain on his sweater is reflected Glory.

The space between delays
is sexier
without the build-up.

The lie you didn’t believe is the spread of oil over a surface.

The scientific method is deliciously evil.
Probability is simply divine.
Democracy is a rude party guest.
A non-fiction writer is only god on a Sunday.

The treasure in the chest is worse
than gum found under the table.
The second part of this sentence
is simply
not worth it.

The precipice off of which we fall is uncomfortably close–
The eye of the hawk is an altered state of being.

The last word is forever lost.

Laundry is worth mentioning.
A sailboat is the next thing.
Stabbing is gaudy.
Company is volcantic.

My heart is on fire.
Valentine’s Day is funny in an ugly way.
Tomorrow is serendipity.

The arctic is garbage.
Apathy is lonely.
Wonder is like a paper cut, unexpected and painful.

A bold lie is too damn high.
The lie is falling.
Night time is plummeting off a cliff.

A bright future is coming soon.
The sun is organized well.

In Relationship

A crystal plate of suffering leaned up against the side of the road. Collected and placed in a bag, the spirit of the dying winter carries it with her everywhere she goes.

Steam rises from a purple rim like fog off mountain peaks. Rooftops glisten in a dusting of brilliant white struck by sunbeams from a stark blue sky.

Around a rim of low-hanging houses, a blanket of clouds lay lazily like unrolled cotton sheets. The sun will stitch lines through these neighborhoods, quilting the unassuming together.

A door opens across a lonesome street. A black cat with burning green and hazel eyes stares into the mouth of the moon. Nothing moves. A sparrow and a crow cry together. A seagull wings higher on a draft toward the stars.

Light dances like lightning bolts from edges of roofs, drip drip dripping down to splatter on grass and rocks and stepping stones laid by planning creatures. Steam flows off warming surfaces like rivers backwards, upwards, into the air to be come part and parcel of the atmosphere.

Branches like bones reach crooked fingers toward the burning source of energy and hope. A vacuum stands between the two, unaware. A mouse pants breath into the frozen dawn. A green-tipped branch breathes it in. Exchange.

Life is but a dream dreamt between the sun and the Earth’s core.
Tomorrow, the dreamers slowly swing further from their mate.