What have you seen, caterpillar?

In the growing winter, such things have become apparent:

We are less likely now to talk in “we”s and “us”s, more likely to talk in “I” and “you”. The first person cooperative pronouns are going out of fashion.
There is this growing space that grows nothing but the wrong kind of resistance. A lazy persistence. A lack of any doing. We talk a lot and do so little. Thinkers or time-wasters?
The sun is starting to show in these adult lines on our faces in dark frowns instead of smiles. We are dying at 40 these days. How long will you live without cancer and a hope?
A slow glowing ember can last all night, if tended. I may be burning inside, but I’m all covered in this ash. Can you tell?
The grey rain pushes me more than my own resolve. What am I resolved to do? Wait without an honest exit plan. We’re unraveling and we call it fun.
Those shutters will be painted in no time. Will you live within them or die slow?
Got a better plan? One at all? A schedule for useless bike rides that can end in your death?
At thirty, are you ready and willing to die? In the fire or out? Rolled around in ash?

I’m waking to a new sense burgeoning inside of me. Where it leads, I’m not at all sure.
Do I have a plan yet?
I sure as hell better get one.
The Spring is soon on the step.
Will I walk into it or fall?
Only this time will tell.

Bucky, I see where you in your silent reveries may have gone wrong. I am not the trimtab, but this whole ship is a part of me and I am sailing along on it. I may be a hand to turn it, but can I turn alone?
Not at all.

Ciclakumei is the key and vida is the answer.
Do you know what I mean?
Anyway.
I will try.

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Journeying, Talking

In the future, months go by in an hour. Here, the sun goes down in 9.
We are waiting for something, but we aren’t sure what.

In Greensboro, we are drinking coffee that tastes like fruit. A modernization of a thing Westerners like us used to shun. Now, we drink.Cheers to our progress. Cheers to ourselves.

In the middle of nowhere, we are sitting and thinking.
In the fading darkness, we are dreaming and hoping.
In the end, we will be leaving.

A star in a lantern is slowly fading, fading, fading.When the sun returns, it will have blown out.
When Spring sets in, it will be a black hole.
We will look into it and see gravity condense around us.
A single singularity we will be, going out into the world.

Single-minded and together.

There is this story I am telling.
There is this picture you are painting.
This is this song we are trying, trying, trying to keep singing.

Is this the end of the world?
When was it not?

Happy sunrise, 2013.
You are a shock to those who had hoped for escape.
To some, you are the best new thing.
To us, you are just the next thing.

One more day is one more year in this story we are walking through.
Will you walk with us?
The deer and the crows and the jays and the cardinals are.

The hawk is fallen, but returned to the world.
All is well.
Earthens are growing cold, old, stale, removed.
Distanced from the sky, distanced from the heart.
The spirit is haunting itself in this night.
Oh bem ikedo.

Tomorrow, we grow strong.Tomorrow, we go wrong.
Tomorrow, we come home.

Tomorrow, on and on.

Every day, a little more.

Almost any move we make begins to feel this weight, this growing insanity. We might be soon to out-grow ourselves.

We go to the free donation drop-off sight today. You know, the place you put all this shit you don’t want and some second-hand place sells it for money, claiming no profit? On the box is posted this sign:
Boxes are being watched for theft.

Wait, theft? What exactly could I be stealing? From the place that claims to not be making profit?From the person who willfully gave it away for free? From the person who is going to pay for it later?

There is a pretty obvious problem here. I wouldn’t this shit “stolen” if someone asked me to take it away. I wouldn’t be remotely angry if someone offered to drop it by the donation center, then decided they wanted to keep it instead. So, why exactly do I give a shit if you take it from some random box?

Oh right, I don’t. So, it follows logically to me that I need not put my things in that theft-free box, then. You can just take it. Enjoy. I don’t need it.

A cold night and city visit

Two bicycles equal four wheels and freedom to those who’ve had their social dreams clipped, burned, scarred, and the ashes dispersed into the night air. Can we deny that these, too, are machines?

Oh neh. Because the horses pastured down the street from our country, outlier, lonely lives stand lonely and cold in the foggy field. One is lying down. It may be dead. Perhaps, it feels the same encroaching, saturating uselessness we do.

Do the horses in the field play box ball when they come to the end of their limits? Do they run in circles around the fences that keep them barred from one another?

Neh. They stand solitary and damp, side by side, watching us as we pass.
Until yesterday, I passed alone. Calling out – life to life. I, too, am alive and stilled. Silenced underneath the pressure of the world at hand. Can you hear me as I pass?

Your large black eyes full of the sorrow of our neglect say “ja”, but perhaps it is only my insanity, my unbearable burden I am hearing calling out to me. You never ran alongside me as I passed. Only once, and that was a mistake – spooked by my ability to move. The latter was a crow’s call you heeded. Told you to fear, and so it was. Startled, you watched me go.

Tomorrow, we will ride into the sunrise and the sunset and the afternoon. Tomorrow, we will feel life in our veins again. Tomorrow, together, we call to you.

Can you hear the unity, the harmonies in our joint voices?
Perhaps, still, neh.

Today, we pass from those tall grasses and lying lives to the stone and cold and remote social obligations of our old roots. Oh how the tall buildings and the imposing powers remind me. The roots of this rotting tree still run deep. Deeper than the underground sewage ways that inevitably pass below our feet.

We sit together in cafe after cafe, getting all mechakucha on caffeine – a drug we’ve been trying to avoid, skirt around, come to terms with. Drug dealers, us both. These roots had started there, but now they feel distant – far off. Suffering of decay.

You think you recognize everyone you see.
I think I don’t know any of these.Are we so different, you and me?
Are we horses in two fields, standing side by side – but divided.

Hardly. The lines around my eyes echo your’s. And my handle bars rise higher, but your body’s just an inch above. This clever manipulation of the changes and challenges between us make us look like two, divided. While inside, we are the same. All around.

I have a hard time connecting with anything that isn’t resistance here. Perhaps, the stones have no voice to me. Or, perhaps, they are the only ones calling out.

I’d rather pass my time with the stones and the horses lying still than with my kin around a table where no-one talks. Or, we all talk nonsense in a different language.

You say hello, have a nice day.
I say, thanks for everything.
We both look away. Go our ways. Never touch.

I’m beginning to think I might spark a fire here.
Perhaps it will burn the whole of it down.

Perhaps, we will raise something better in its stead.

At any rate, this place is where my history lies – though I don’t know the curves of its streets, the same lines of its body. It is my lover’s shadow like a ghost passing through me.

And in the time I’ve been away, I’ve become so hollow you might pass the wind right through me.

A perfect spirit for the ciclakumei to grab hold of.
To possess.
To correct.

Some kind of revolution

Some kind of revolution

Ciclakumei, La Resistance, Protectorate, Bright Light. A collaboration, amalgamation, conflagration of all of these perhaps.

The new stories of all the canto mushi-shi are brimming through my head. Here is what it looks like to be lit by them.

Do you see them swimming in the air?
Can you hear them?
Do you feel them?

They touch your skin and are warm. Sometimes, rarely, often – they burn.
Have you noticed?

Happy something today.

Some holiday passed yesterday without our notice. A chill in the air, bread from Flagstaff grapes in the oven, and a casserole dish for the next three or five days. Depending on how fast it goes. How fast does it go?

I can’t tell. It’s November something. I think the winter is actually approaching. But, the sun is still in the sky warming my side from above as I sit half in shade, half out. Like a true winter creature – trying to find the bits of life still left.

Metal wings fly every day now, and this morning I hit this wall. Excuses and bellyaching made for a miserable morning. Have I stopped listening, Carbon? Have I forgotten you so quickly, like the dead?

Day of the dead is long, long ago past but maybe I need another reminder.
Come up from the grave and smack me in the face. I will listen if you wail loud enough.

No, no but that is just fireworks in the distance because today was some kind of celebration. A jubilee, but not of any sort to be set free of anything you might have accidentally accrued in the last seven years. A fat feast for the rich and the well-to-do, and another loaf of guilt and misunderstanding for me and you.

The day before all of this, we two swung from vines in a massive pecan tree that we meant to break. Mid air and the snap occurred, leaving us bent back and crashing to the ground. I nearly hit my head, you nearly smashed into the crowbar. We took a ladder and balanced it against the trunk, sworn to get those poisoned strands down. Sworn to break our heads. It was shaky, that high up, just hanging from these crackling vines, one leg up over that trunk and the rest of me sprawled, terrified and wasted, just waiting to fall.

Some of those vines are black inside, like ash crawled up their spines and burned them out. I wonder how that felt? Oh but the vines are long dead and we’re just pulling their legs from our tree. I think I own something here. Perhaps, it owns me.

At any rate, I’m working my way out on this limb that I won’t be able to hold on to. I think if I had a saw, maybe I could catch that fallen branch. Y’know, the one that keeps getting in our way when we walk from this way to that? When we walk down that broken stone path?

Are we going anywhere but round and round?

These two wheels I found in the basement of a bike place have fit me well. The bruises happen over the bones, where they’re supposed to. And under the shoulder blades is this stiffness I’d long forgot. Both calves seize up before I get up the stairs to go to bed. Pirate and Kadense are up there waiting. They’ve been sleeping on the couch all week. In dim lighting like candles from this tiny lamp.

We like a lot of tiny things.
I think we can blame some bright fires for that.

Though how bright they are is yet to be discovered.

First Port is coming. We are days away. And then, the winter will strike at us again. And we’ll see how well the garlic grows up from the morning frost.

So far, so good.

So far.

Under fog and stars

Going stir-crazy in that little house made of bricks and the modern West.

Little? No hardly. It is expansive, full of the historical thread of a civilization we no longer want anything to do with. Built on greed, lust, power, and death.

All around, I hear the silence of it. The stillness of a death cuddled up inside of what was once alive, of what outside of it is still life. The hum of our modern convenience fills my ears, on and on. And only when it goes out do they burn. Burn from the hush of nothing around. The empty hollowness of a cold and shallow loneliness.

If I step outside, I’ll be out in the cold.
If I step outside, I’ll be out in the open.
If I step outside, I might find some life around.

A deer here and there hooves across the grass in shadows, unseen, unknown. I can hear a sleeping jay stirring to warn me. Something is coming.

My stupid Western heart beats so fast I can hardly stop the shaking. Shivering. Chattering. A dog fenced in the distance bays, bays, bays non-stop. I wonder what it’s calling out?
Death. A trap. The end.

Fog rolls in and starts to cover the milky way I can see over my head when I look up past all these darkened trees. A snake could be in the grass, stirring, ready to strike as I walk by. One of those coyotes in the distant woods might come, smell me, find me. A scrabbling just off my left elbow could be anything. A threat, blind and strike-less.

Nothing comes. Only my bated breath, my visible breath, my shallow breath. I stand there, hands in pockets, cold, freezing. I’m not ready for this weather, this moment, this revelation.

When I see you inside that big, empty house with all the warmth of that oil heater – burning, burning, burning death away – I see it so clearly. You, fenced in, sitting alone in a little warm cage. You sit there in that artificial, cut off silence and read some book about something interesting. You move some dishes around. You are getting up and down. But, out here, I can’t hear a thing.

I can see the whole of it and you, in that little box, see nothing.

Little? Hardly.

The emptiness of this trap we’ve made, generations and generations of us all cobbled together into one massive failure is huge. The weight of it is a lead block on our hearts. The shadow of it massive, impending, damning.

Can you breathe under its veil?
I can’t.

Tonight, we might pitch our tent and sleep in what this Western way tells me is my “yard”. I think the deer and the jays and cardinals own more than I do. The assembly beetles belong wherever they choose to gather. The grass is from the Earth. I’m uncertain if I am or not.

I feel like I want to be.

I think the potato bug on our window sill must have been like me at some point. Knowing what and where and who it was. Four legs just trying, struggling, barely getting on.

It’s dead now.

You and I might make it through this winter, though.
If we can just get back outside where there’s life.
That life holds all the hope there is.

Do you see it?