From Neil Gaiman, in a dream

“I think…that I would rather recollect a life mis-spent on fragile things than spent avoiding moral debt.”

A brief moment of inspiration spent away from the worlds of future avoidances, morals all askew and debts unpayable to banks that hold captive the souls of combusted stardust.

In news, Un(en)titled in the final stages.
It’s a Disaster has had a break-through and twenty thousand words later, we are finally what I could call “under way”.
Crazy Sad has been initially tossed to the jury. Verdict as yet unsure.

All these fagile things, I collect and scatter, align and redistribute, in the aim of what?
Mostly, to have known at the given moment that last moment, I was alive.

My dream is a decadent chantrelle soup

Eating an entire bag
of strawberry flavored marshmallows
is ergonomically deficeint.

Going to a circuis starring horses
is a felony.
Pop music is loud.

Finding a new housemate is a fable —
A bottle of wine
is really irritating.
after that mistake,
is cranky.

“Social degredation is my heart’s desire”
Your thought is a rapid death.

Childhood is a nightmare
not worth recalling.
Traveling is rotten,
as in poorly preserved.

Cultural appropriation is like
touching wet bubble gum
underneath a table.
Our heroic protagonist is

The last word is destructive.

Cancer is hopeless.
An unexpected let down
(…is rather smelly)
Great-grandma is hard to see.

The barren tree is a crooked fellow.
A heart attack is awfully likeable.
Fire is strictly inexcuseable.
A flood is verbose.
The ripple in the lake, approaching the shore,
is unreliable
at best.

A revolving door is ridiculous.
is behind the second door.
Closing the door is
like a yowling cat sitting on your face.

Carolyn is the secret ingredient.
The soup is what I embody.

Separation of the brain from the skull.

I wish I could tear open your secrets like envelopes, read your thoughts like letters written to no-one but yourself. Dig up the bones you’ve buried and study the rates of decay. Track a light into the hidden, tucked-away alcoves of your past and your present mind. Stare like massive, louvre style paintings at the memories of your life as you saw it slip by.

I can’t. I never will.
I have to bow out and tap out and admit, this once, defeat.
Again and again.

But the owls never stop hunting despite a famine in the land. They try and try and try, fighting against hunger until they die. They fly and fly through the night sky until there is no more prey to find. Until their bellies are full, their search will not be satisfied.

If never, then never.
An endless flight gliding on wings that beat and churn the air.
A single cry, high and sharp, lets you know the kill is coming soon.
When, I wonder, is the last time you’ve looked up?

Last night–
The moon rose a sliver, but in the glint of the coming sun, the whole sphere was visible. Dark grey against a black-blue sky. Paper clouds unrolled between the mountains and the valley here. A swatch of white in all that vacuum black to relfect our yellow-orange unnecessary gaslight.

I was awake at two, three, five before the dawn.

Awake, beceuase I could not sleep. Awake seeking knowledge and truth like food and water around a kitchen of deceit. I was starved and parched without. I’d only last a little while. Stumbling over odds and ends that don’t amount to much but trash and tripe in my way. I tried to climb over, but I was deterred from even a sip of water, a crumb.

I went back to bed to wait until my bones brittle and my stomach distends and my skin turns to dust and blows away.

Then — in the sunrise tomorow — you can bury me with your secrets, and we’ll all be safe.
Chances are high, right?

Moonlit Magician and a Muse

Keep your wits about you. The light is changing. From sun-bathed gold to slivers of sparkling silver light. A shadow here dimmer for the glimmer of the light is less. A fantasy, a slight of hand, a ring of magic — and you could be lost to cold winds and sharp cliffs.

A fire burns in a lantern. Is it a star to guide you home or a death at the door waiting to devour you? No-one put it there but you.

Feather headdresses crown the trees, crows and jays, owls and raptures, perched and waiting to spot the weakness, the weakest moment in you. A trip, a misstep. Unguided, out here, you could easily disappear.

But lie out in the light and shield your eyes and you might, might, might just find the one thing that you’d been thinking you could avoid.

The knowledge that what you’ve done and where you’ve been and the things you’ve known and grown into are the things that will, in this half light and otherworldly dance, bring you back to your senses.

Take off your goddamn shoes and feel the ground. It pulses with the pull of north, taking you up and up and up through the fear and doubt that’s been a crippled crutch from the start. Like smoke rings, you can burn yourself up and rise, flitting and separating, into the sky.

Four small glass jars full of four differnt things. A ring carved by your hand into the ground. Full moon breaks from behind the rushing clouds. Only for a second can you see it. A handful of moss and grass and sticks and gemstones you’ve collected over days and years, lifetimes passing like clouds across you.

The truth underneath these images is the truth we’re scraping at. It goes deeper than blood and calicum lines. Deeper than limestone and the ocean floor. Deeper than rivers of lava shifting molten underneath mountain ranges. It goes beyond the stars blown super-nova down into black holes that always, always have, always will remember everything.

When you look into the sky at night, you see the way things are. You see the past as it actually happened. You see the whole universe as it once unfurled. You never see the moments as they are or happen or become. You only ever know what was.

We call the sun’s light day because light reflects against the watery skin of our bubble and shields us from such things. We want for it because that proximal star sheds bounties of life around for us to devour, alter, and love.

Aspect One, Two, Three, Four, &t

Like a cut gem, there are all kinds of angles to approach. Angles that refract shadows. Angles that produce light. Angles that cut and sink poison in your skin if you approach too slow. Angles like razors that slice through lies and untruths like bone blades on the backs of dragons in mythological lore.

The world is made of lore, of ghosts, of spirit fires and dances and raw, pure desire.

To wallow in angst is to miss the heights at which those lorish dragons fly. To dive into pleasure is to see them just right. Dancing on the edge of a ledge underneath a bright white sliver sky. Stars and planets and galaxies untested, unknown, shimmering guttering glitter against the backs of jewels thrown. Chasing the edges of the night already known.

Attach to all this some deeper meaning and it can never fade away.
Grow in me some discontent, some unrest, undissatisfaction, and I’ll never quiet down.
Put in me a golden glow, and I’ll never die out.

Dedicated to the nearest star

Thinking I could chase after you was the worst mistake I ever made.
I’m setting down my shoes and leaving town.

I’ll head west and gather as much along the way as I can.

Look for me on the other side of the mountains.

Meet me in the wind and rain.
I’ll have no cover on.
And we can dance until we’re blue.


How quickly they yellow and fade with time. How neatly they become conglomerates of better, brighter, warmer times. How easily they are altered and shifted about. How hard they are to discard.

A train in the summer blaring by in humid pressed-together heat. Sticky sweaty hands pressed against the oncoming blare of sound and glare of light. We stood stalk still and blew and blew and blew in that wind.

A bean bag chair big enough for two people. It was black and you had your back to me while I made your roommates macaroni and cheese — shit I used to, in those days eat.

Crying, always someone crying.
In a living room past three in the morning.
In a shower behind a public beach we didn’t camp at.
In a room, alone at night staring out at Orion’s belt and wishing for things no way could exist.
In a bathroom stall to the sounds of other people pissing.
In a booth in the kind-of isolated corner of a pizza parlor.
In the closet underneath the stairs in the dark in the middle of a winter day.
In the middle bench seat of a blue van.
In a kitchen, and a kitchen, and a kitchen, and a kitchen, and a kitchen, and a kitchen.
So many goddamn kitchens.

I detach so easily, not because I had to. But because I wanted to. I still do. I hold my arms open to the sun and the wind blows through the holes punched in my gut and my non-existent soul and because I can just float away — all of this is okay with me.

I don’t need anything but to know I can always escape.
Obrigato Kopia y Mokutan.
You’ve shed, at least, that much light together.
And well fucking done.

Unrequited desire

I want for a lover who embodies every so-called and defined “feminine” thing that I can’t have.

But. I don’t want it sealed up in the packages this day and age package them for me in. I want them without walls and bounds. I want them piece-meal and pulled apart and put back together however they collide. I want them authentic and raw and real.

I long for them like needles under my skin to inject the drugs I crave. I’d beg you to give them — if only I could find you who have them and hold them in the boundless ways I speak of. In the jumping-off-ledges not-really-thinking, no-looking-back ways I am dreadful desperate for.

I want short skirts and knotted ribbons and pretty painted things. I want fishnets and lipstick. Smooth hairless legs and soft downy-haired breasts. Fragile arms and wide hips to press me down.

I want to sweat, be slick, be wet with blood-flow. Pink and red and purple-hot flooding, rushing, crashing against my skin. Blue blood down under layers and layers of skin, of flesh I can tear in. I want dancers and seducers and lovers not afraid to make a mess and make some noise.

You’ll inevitably mistake me, mishear me, miss my meaning, think you know what I need.
But, you’d be wrong. What I want are merely scattered pieces of a whole I have not yet found. Perhaps, it does not exist. No much matter.

What I really need is love. Passionate wild and unmixed. Without walls or bounds or the boxes we’re bound up in. Just take me for all I’ve got. Press me down hard and hot and show me things I’ve only ever dreamed.

Please, oh god, love me.
I’m desperate in need.

Seven twenty four

The earth turns and tilts into starlight just close enough to cause life to burst onto its surface. Moutains of stone and moisture mingle together to hold the burning orange at bay, keep it back to white and slants of yellow thorugh the brilliant blue water-reflected sky.

Wide unsharpened golden bars stab through sheets of grey gunmetal damp waiting, hovering and hanging to sink chilly into soil, clothes, fur, feathers, skin.

How beautiful the sunrises through the rainforest winter are.
How strange to think I could have enitrely missed them, had no concept of them, thought this grey was solid and indefinitely ongoing.

Perception alters reality and nothing is linear.
Motion is existence and to feel it, see it, know it, be it — is to be alive.

My soul is part and parcel of this motion. My love a manifestation of the appreciation I have evolved so as to be mentally capable of. My hope is like mirrors into which I stop to see this stark reality. A momentary reflection of the empathy my vibrations echo through bones of trees and mountains and seas.


The quick snap of pain against soft skin keeps something deep underneath those cells and those nerves wired to the Earth. To the cycles of days and nights. To the wheel of threads and interwoven life.

Without reminders, I get heady and loose myself from gravity and drift off into inner space. There no rivers flow and no sound escapes but the vacuum presses cold and harsh against those inner eyelids. And before I know it, I’m fast alseep and throwing punches truncated at the air.

I was born so domesticated, I hardly survive in the wild.

Ah, but if I break these bones apart, I might remember how to feel. If I tear this skin and burn this hair, maybe I stand a chance of recalling what I once knew was real. If I come unglued, maybe I stand a chance of grounding myself again.

If I let go, maybe I stand a chance of remembering I already knew how to fly.

I am holding on by threads and ropes that someone else twisted secure around me.
I am clinging to the past and the wisdom of the wind.

Eventually, I’ll be falling.

Until then, I hope the sun’s glow and the moon’s thrown shadows and the gravity fom these shivering stones uphold me until my eyes close.