A: Here. Take my hand. Run.

B: Run? As in Re-run?

A: No. As in legs pumping faster than a casual stroll. Heart hammering against your ribs. Sweat in your eyes. Arms swinging to a steady rhythm. Body leaned gracefully forward.

B: Oh. I’d rather rewind myself and start again.

A: We can’t do that.

C: Yes, we can.

A: Shit. It’s too late.

B: What do you mean?

C: Come with me.

B: Do I have to run?

C: No.

A: But you should.

C: Don’t listen to that. It’s an alarm bot. I’m your friend.

A: I don’t know about hat.

B: I think I’ll trust you. Looks like a bot. Let’s go.

B goes with C to a van. B gets in. The van is marked “HOLDING + INTERROGATIONS. K-9 ON DUTY”

C: Comfy?

B: No, umm, the door’s locked?

C: Observant aren’t you. Sit tight. I’m taking you in for questioning.

B: What?! Why?

C: Being in the vicinity. This is a high security area. Sit tight.

B: Shit.

A: That’s always how it goes. Try to warn them and they fall for it every time.

C: Ok k-9-bot. A job well done. Power down.

A: Powering down.

C: Off to the office!

Dominant, priviledged, and calling all the shots.

I feel more sinister every moment that we pass. Sexual and violent each time we touch. The energy in spaces in between sizzles and fizzles and burns against my skin and hairs. I’m standing taut, erect, just dancing on the air.

I want to bury you in bloody, swollen envelopes. I want to swallow you whole, feel the pressure press down my esophogus and bury itself bulging in my gut. I want to bear you away with me and birth you once we’ve broken free from chains and whips and this chemical burden inheritance.

But you laugh and cull my digressions so easily it really actually is almsot funny.
Oh, wait.
Am I laughing?
Oh, ho ho no. But you smile because you know I’m instantanouesly powerless with the flick of your tongue and the click of your wrist. Pop your knuckles like you lackadaisically pop my bones. Snip, snap. Crick, crack.

I’m crumbling dust below your high heeled shoes, below your power ties and power stripes. Below your heavy plodding footfalls. Below your mellowly accepted pitfalls.
Sink holes in your logic don’t seem to bother you, anger you, aggitate the simple pleasures afforded you.

Oh let me bow and kiss the tips of your toes and polish the floor of poor you tread upon.
Please laugh and light my hair on fire and toast your marshmallows while I burn. Nothing awful will come of this separation. The world will not turn it’s back on you. The sun will always shine.

You may be right, but I hate you all the same.
Purge your power from stinging tongues and hold coals to your lips and eyes.
Then, maybe, we can talk again.
Until then?

Oyasuminasai amai.

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,
But who’s the one to throw?

Those without thorns
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.