gods iv (Artifact)

I see, now, how gods are made. You fight and you fight and you fight — right up until the break. Then, at the very last second, you cave.

You could have changed the world, but it would have cost your soul. It would have been slow erosion and you wanted the wash of the flood. You would have been sunk in the dark and lost your heart. You came close. To death, many times. But the cost of that loss — you thought — was too great a price to pay. The risk too high. And with life, they were able to coax you down.

So, you folded hands and packed it in, and packed auditoriums instead. The monsters said you couldn’t make it without their help and their hand and crumbs from their table. Turns out, they were right. The machine runs this way because it was created to.

But, as I watch, I feel a heavy sinking in my gut. A hopelessness none of your faith or words can cure. Because if the gods don’t hold to tack, who will?

Society is a sinking ship and everyone is tied, laughing, to the bow. No-one is brave enough to catch wind and let go. So, no-one even tries to untie the ropes. The knots would slip oh so fucking easily, if you’d have slipped a finger underneath. But excuses and logic reasoning is so easy to believe, and to bow is kinder on the knees than to fall.

But what do I know?

I will never be a god. Never dwell inside your columned rooms on the top of your Olympus. I’ll be small beans in the back seat. Small shells collected by small hands on a vast sea shore. Drift across an ocean slow, a single coconut. Over time and over scope, I might help change the ecosystem of a distant island. But of course, I little seed, will never know.

I will live a whole life in want and lack, risk and chance, loss and loneliness. I live there by choice. I’m an idealist to the hardened core, and I don’t know how to say “no more”. I’m just a seeker grabbing pieces enough to survive. And, I don’t need excess to fight back. I, sea swallow, store my venom well and wait.

One day, my time too will come. But it will be dimmer and slower, and I will not see its flash.

I have no spite for you and your ways, and I don’t mean to be mean.
This is just an honest review. The spirit’s response. A cry from the gut.
If your godly eyes grace this place, just take these words for what their worth.

I don’t have a lot of hope; cynical night hunter that I am.

I already said: gods and ghosts don’t meet.
I’ve seen the proof of why. Now, I believe.

Peace. One final time.


Believe whatever makes you feel better.

Legs skinny as spring twists. Toes blue-white curled around a hard, unforgiving ledge. Clipped wings, bones of shoulder blades jutting back under tight, goose-pimpled skin. Chest stretches upward, pulled by the gravity of expectation and inevitable disappointment.

The ocean waves lap far below, taunting. Spray sprinkles shattered rainbow shards through the air. The wind as it twists around jagged rocks and through snakelike holes cries in a thousand immaterial voices, “Fly.”

So you try.

And it’s a long way down, but the time it takes is a breath and a blink before the feeling of freedom is torn away by the lash and crack of the ocean in your face.

Down through a tumble in darkness confused you fall, roll over, and cannot find up. Alone in murky dark, you reach for purchase and find only your own hair and limbs to tangle about in.

You wish a spear of light from the surface would stab through the deep and grab you. Catch you, flailing fish without gills. Drag you back to air.

You are waiting, but this one gasping breath with only last so long.

The dark is closing in.

The end is coming.

And bubbles made of screams will only pop into nothing.

The universe wanted you to succeed? Were you sure you read that right?

Perhaps the universe is indifferent and we are but vibrations with painfully self-aware egos that ache to be more than we know we can be.

Or, maybe you are not drowning but swimming and the surface is but arm’s length away and you have a pretty long reach. And kick upward is all you’ve got to do. Hold your screams in to fight gravity and break through.

Why? Because the universe wants you to.

Dark spirits abounding

I hit bottom yesterday, hard. Trudged around picking splinters from my fingers and feet. Laid down in the night and didn’t sleep. Brain on super-power high-speed. Not connecting to the cloud, but to bad dreams. In the pre-dawn I hear cries from other rooms. Sitting up, I feel gingerly around the edges of my room. Don’t want to push or move too quick in fear of popping the blister over my brain. My body buzzes with unbounded energy.

I gather courage and sit up. Collect my notes. On a black screen, the buzzing becomes a source of light in the pre-dawn cracks around my door. I write worries into images. As light breaks, I hear others stir. I come out of myself, linger in the center room, and wait as friends and lovers slowly gather shadows at my feet.

We pass words but do not touch. We are all still shivering scared. The night air was filled with the shudders of dark spirits, the dead spirits, the spirits of those who past in agony and suffering. In tendrils of mist, we cling to our chests and gather sighs.

The day will fade our pain, and in the warmth of the glowing day, we will see it was only a sense of doom we had. A premonition. A dream.

If you escaped free from the torrent, consider yourself lucky. I woke, stirred, inadvertently tapped in, and got fucked. My spirit’s still sore from the stretch.

Some days, that’s just how intuition is. But all things considered, it’s worth the weight. A cost I’ll always pay for what truth lies on the flip side.

Passion of a Muse Confused

A stone has been dropped from space and fell in the center of the ocean. Ripples like echoes sound continual drumming fingers and lapping lips against my little craft. I turn my bow outward, Northeastward, and float. I do not catch wind for want of a taut sail. Is it not raised, you asked?

No. Not even rigged. Tucked safely under my arm.

The current of the ripples alone guide me from here. I will drift until I see sharks and dolphins fighting, fins flashing against moonlit water. Until I see honus tuck flippers and drift past my wandering hull. Until I see violence worth fleeing or fighting in. For the moment of adrenaline, I’m still waiting. Out on the bow now, not down in the keep. Watching wary eyes on the water for shadows, ghosts, 妖怪. When the ripples widen over the length of a body, I will know my time has come.

In my stay from the wind, I watched a carpenter bee die. It laid in the wash of the sea. Aboard a narrow craft of a feather it clung and I, the hand of fate, took it to safety of sandy dunes. There it kicked and braced, tucked wing and antenna against a black arched back, sleek and shimmering against the setting sun’s metallic light.

Some stranger called, “What are you watching?”

And I thought “death and inevitability”. But, I called nothing back. The wind stirred and I rose, turned, and continued my journey. In another few moments, I guessed, the bee’s system stopped. I watched until there was nothing to see. Nothing left to experience for me. But death still gripped the bee cold through its useless fruitless struggle.

And I thought — I am nothing but a dying bee. A boat, listing. I exist only as a thread drifting through long contemplative days of painted skies, gathering driftwood and scattered sea life husks of death and discarded feathers like organic trash. In those slow meandering journeys bounded on all sides by salt spray and decaying beaches, I am coming slowly back into my smile and my skin. Only, I don’t know what that means.

Will I shake earth and break mountain with these images being sunk like pylons into me? Will I break barriers, break rules, shatter glass castles with the echo of my words? Will I be a trim-tab on this massive vessel cutting swathes in the sea? Can I prevent our collective crash and burn? Will I be a voice harkening angelic, demonic, prophetic calls into the blackness as we fall captive to our deaths? Can I change the course of anything?

Does any single person ever? Or have our histories and mythologies lied whispers of gods to us? Is every heart, burning or not, only ever a small fish in the big sea? Nothing but the shell of a dying carpenter bee?

What difference does the answer make but to our egotistical desire to be loved, worshipped, held high?

No matter.
Admission is the first step in the matter.

And fuck it. I don’t want to dust the ground forever. I was born with vestige wings and I fucking want to fly. I’ll find my ledge and jump. “Catch me if I don’t catch air,” I’ll say, but there will be no-one there.

Either I will fall or fly. Hit ground or touch cloud.

So it goes.

gods iii (零)

If I weren’t on a journey far away from home and I didn’t have to scrape my money to its bone, I’d throw a hundred dollars through the atmosphere to turn purple like a bruise, and pretend like I have the chance to get to know you.

But zero times one hundred still amounts to zero. So even on that stage, it’d be me faking chances and staging made-up romances like maybe if I begged, you’d beat my purple to black and blue. Hand around my neck and fuck me too.

But, not a syllable of this gets through the white noise of irrelevance. And my sphere of influence is equal to my ape index and you are far too far away. I’d hyper-extend myself and still not reach. Stuck out there, hanging off a cliff, broken and alone.

So instead, I lay in a cold bed away from home, praying prayers of swirling slow ashen charcoal smoke. Begging silent sighs into the subtle windy night for chance to bend your ear and coincidence convince you to hear me out. I have nothing else. I was born a fire oni and we null-ghosts are not allowed to pray aloud. Better never seen and never heard.

So all this energy amounts to nothing, zero, null.

I only burn fever dreams of you. I have no faith. I ride lust like a bicycle I can not handle. I flip the wheel and fly off, head over handle bars, running my face into the pavement of reality. Skin my hands and knees. Get roadrash all down my naked chest and tummy.

All said and done: I stand there shivering, covered in my blood. Red all over and no signs of black or blue or purple. Only gritty grey gravel trapped in tattoos underneath the ripped up mess of me. My imagination is a coping mechanism and it tells me this could be the warmth of love from your fingertips.

It’s not. And never will be.

Because ghosts like me and gods like you don’t meet.
I only get to exist as passing comments on strangers’ lips. And you are only static three-dimensional images looped on infinite repeat.

So, peace.
I may meet you in the ether once we’ve both crossed over and nothing else exists.

gods ii (fury)

I’m sucked in way deep.

Up to my knees in addiction concrete. I’m muthafucking losing sleep. It’s pathetic, and there’s nothing will come of it. You might as well be a god, and I don’t believe in putting weight in the follow-through of deities. I can jive with spirits, but all the god-as-man bullshit can go straight to the hell it invented for itself.

Problem is, I’ve latched on nice and neat. The concept of “worship”, I now see, is sweet, easy, cheap. I won’t get burned by you because you don’t exist. I can put my hand through the place where you ought to be and it’s air, all the way down.

So what difference does a little pathetic worship make if it keeps my heart out of the gutter for a couple passes?

Well. It would be a simple answer if it worked.

It doesn’t.

I’m much too much the activist to sit on my ass and wait for mountains to move I know damn well are rooted to the core of the earth. I’m much more likely to dance off a ledge and trust the wind will carry me into the sky. Both are equally likely, but in one I get to move — and the other, I risk nothing.

I can’t stand that.

In either case, it’s a total brain wash. Three degrees of separation might as well be three degrees of faulty navigation in the middle of the goddamn ocean. I’d say I’m over all this claptrap, but that’s a see-through lie. Sweet, easy, cheap.

All I can do is slowly chip away at these delusions and realize neither situation has a “higher likelihood of being true”. The likelihood of one with no chance cannot be more likely than the other with no chance.

Basic math.

I’d be much better off burning energy honing down what I’ve got until it equals what I want, and then work my fucking ass off to get it out there in any way possible. Can’t do anything until I have the work done.

Focus, focus, focus.
I need to fuck up less now, not more.