Uncategorized

Sketchers of Souls
With pencil, paper, eagle's eye, we sketch the souls as they roll by. One by one the sketchers fade, leaving unscribbled souls to suffocate neath crystalline undulations of hate. We two, froze, stay sketching. Struggle to record as many souls as we can before the final strike.

The Hungry
We hunger. Farms faded. Aisles echo. All food has flown into the sun. And as we starve my nephew's voice echoes from the darkest crevasse of my skull to the angriest snarl in my gut, "Are people food?"

Hypnagogic
The Bundy's (MWC) eating off the floor like dogs
Dots like lazy snowflakes drifting in and out of view

Culvert
A country too crowded, soaked in a hurried sunset. Try to escape. They have walled all paths. Two planes dance wild. They crash. Their death spark reveals all in the dark. Sky is streams of planes. Distance booms like death. Take cover in a culvert. Cut off from starlight. Misplaced from the moon. We've only the earth for protection. We hope she loves us still. Sing songs from sacred days.

Boxed
A big city. A big building. A big party. Suddenly locked. Streets are a surge zombie warriors with wings of fire and eyes of guns. Screaming metal and humming drones keep us in our boxes. Gather water. Gather food. Gather what wits are left. Hope rolls to us by way of winding tubes and message marbles. We will survive.

Notes:
Fasted for 24 hours to see if my dreams would change or I might possibly become lucid. Attack came in every dream I recalled but there was no life or death fear attached so I can't call them frightening or even nightmares.

Back Man
He lays on pavement, scooting on his back. Two men orbit him, yowling in nonsense. What is happening? Some strange attack? Social media prank? Eventually curiosity wilts. There's work to do. We leave the trio and reclaim our way.

Harry
He revives Harry. It's a one man show. He performs his role like a raving clown. But there is no Floyd. It's only Harry. Bizarrely it works. Our vigilant brains fill in the spaces where Floyds words would be. And I, for the life of me, can't comprehend if the show garbage or genius.

Hood
He fashions a hood from scraps of human flesh. But it is okay, he says, because his scraps were soul-less, seeded in the secrecy of a lab.

Star Shifts
Riddled with fearful anticipation we plot our paths either into the mysterious birth or the ever stretching fringe of the known. Red stars or blue stars are guiding lights.

Wonderful to be back.

I was lost in a sea of hypnagogic imagery as pain pulled me in and out of dreams.
An imploding compound eyeball.
A braid of light wisps.
Police pushing through my door.
Up a steeply inclined string.
A vibrating tangle of spectral shapes that nearly was a dream.

Imladris?
Whispers of moonlight slip through carven beams of a hallway unending. Drifting fluff of soul, aimless and ailing, I amble along. He calls a name that is mine and yet, not. I am a river. Voices are echoes, sacred harmonies so gently easing all the harm in me. A path of new moons and ritual fasts, of magic mantras and dream woven tasks is assigned to me. I agree. Finally there is rest beneath the stars, beside cascades, beyond dim and damned ever reaching hands.

24th

Hypnagogia
A field of sunflowers is actually a field of suns that are tied off and bobbing like balloons.

Messes
To hell with the mirth and mess. Flee hypocrisy. The inn is the out. Too soon it too is dirt and distress. The scatter of trash nimbly mutates into a piercing childhood haunt, monster of false memories. Escape filth and faulty flashbacks. Uneasy freedom is found in bizarre streets.

To celebrate the longest night of the year, extra early to bed. Dec 21-22 2024

Please
Sultry whispers wake me, "Please let me please you." Mild rage unfurls within to fill the shallow where sleep had been. He stays relentless in his quest until I bitterly confess, "The only way to please me is to let me sleep and lucid dream."

Cheese
Hum of hushed conversations is surround-sound, nonsensical chorus. Crinkles in the dark catch my ear. Turn. Kay and Jay slurp cheese slices straight off the wrappers. It seems odd until, on the wall, others crinkle and slurp just the same.

Hunting Season
A boggy field brings me home. "You need to dye your hair lighter. It's hunting season." a stranger tells from the road. I nod. Slog on. Then comes a yip, the slap of paws upon sodden lawn. I turn. Prep for fight or flight. Instead am riddled with delight by the sight of a little fox, ragged and romping, eyes sparking bright. Fearlessly it follows me into the very heart of home. I swear to keep him hidden from the hunt.

Sudden Fair
Supple solitude and the warm caress of a waning sunset are disrupted. Waves of children flood through the fence. Floating behind, like battered driftwood lumps, come their parents. A carnival erupts. Trapped on a teeter-totter the length of a house, cousin and I carefully lift and lower. Mid plank, perched like a mob of monkeys, a small group sits and sways. Yearn for loneliness of the stolen sunset.

Black Days
Flicker of hearing and singing Fell on Black Days.

Gajeet
Her songs, bitter or sweet, are melodious of voice and soul. But her spoken words are angular like tainted arrows ripping through their target hearts. It is agreed that she is evil. We guard our secret scars.

House
Can't seem to clean it, this strange-shapen house of too many windows and too few doors. Wire and woven cords spill from shocked outlets. Attempt to untangle them but they dangle untamed. Blind eyes and broken hands tumble cross towel carpet floors. Glass rafters cackle then I too tumble away.

The Show
History is fake. Words are curses made to shine like hope. The shining smiles, distracting shows, absurdly long tresses of leaders, bleeders, attention needers, keep our eyes locked in glorious lies.

Sailer
They stab poles into earth bones. Hoist city sized swaths of fabric high. "We will right the world," they sing to simpering herds. In actuality, no rhyme or reason stands behind the helter-skelter sails. But the herds are pacified. In fraud they trust.

Writer
I am writing. Or perhaps righting the wrongs they wove across long, misleading lives. The hidden truths behind the tales will finally see the light.

18th

Hamill Wall
Wall is a canvas equally divided. In each rectangle he deftly splashes a smatter of hues, a scribble of line. His storyboard, complete after a short time. Can not decipher his spatters of soul. And he will not share his secret story by way of worthless words. He signs it simply, Mark.

19th

Calenardhon
I am medicine for a horse lord, worn. Naked, across night, he takes his fill. He spills into specter realms with the trilling of the dusk. Slumber now, to strength. White tree arises. Her sons dismount. Step past the whispers and spirits of stone. We speak of treaties and of tarnished thrones, of fires rekindled yet swift to wither. Where is medicine for our world's swift decay?

13th

Hoof
All the beasts with rubber hooves, fall flat as the dawn of our escape arises.


14th

Cold Soul
In the midst of a storm a nephew is born. Swaddled in secrets, he is hushed my way. He is mine to raise. But he can't be raised, cuddled or caressed, spoken to or stressed. He is a shimmer, like the foremost frost of a fatal winter soon to suffocate our world. I can do nothing but let him lie and leech what is left of the warmth from our lives.

Grinner
On wings of wild rose whips and patchwork slaps of flesh, it lurks in long shadows and laughs at our feeble steps. We can't find its face but its dagger grin glows, goes, glows again. Terrorize the trio who now rue their hunter ruse. It lurks, lingers, laughs at pretenders who claimed they could outwit pristine sin. Sun surrenders the sky. With naught but our wit and the wakening stars, we must somehow fight our way. A flicker of lucidity is swiftly screamed away.

Somewhere, up there, shines a life. Attempt ascension. The shadows snicker. Steps scream in protest. Am arrested by an empty embrace. "Where are you going?" the hinderer asks. "Don't know," I confess. Encirclement slips. "Do you love me still?" "I did and still do. But crave you? I can't," slips my tender rant. Shake off shadow. Back upwards. Back outwards. Back into bright fortune or dazzling doom to suffer strange sunsets and numinous moons.

Migration
West is a scarlet wall. Dark shapes mount horizon, flocking, floating, flapping. And we, willingly blind to magnificent now, miss all the soaring signs. Geese of golden feather. Silver swans and herons hum their sacred hymns. Pterodactyls soar on pearlescent stingray wings. Even as I see them my eyes remain quite blind. Their dreamy reality soars straight over my mind.

The Spark
Her world is fluid blue, of sparking scales and flickering fins, of predators and hungering things. Despite the death above, below, beside, she sparkles while avoiding eyes.

The Bereaved
Roads are a clot of cars. My feet will find a way. Cringe through inching chaos, sing through this slow escape. A cousins home hunches, desolation heavy. They sit in silent pain bereft of wit or words, wrapped in sorrow and shade. No solace shines in me. Children swarm. Sip dark drink. Eat their fill of ant swarmed dates. And then he is present, he who had passed. He plays for us a song. Guitars shriek, lyrics slip from a host of haunted lips. I wish it otherwise but no solace shines in me. I leave.

A resistance of souls, wise and rising, encircle flame. All souls laid bare. Sift through clusters of confessions. Devise a way to reclaim light. Not through protest nor through fight but secretly through self empowerment. Offered a simple meal of milk and fruit, at first decline, I am disgusted by their gentle gambit. Then I partake, perhaps they're right. Passive progress is progress still?

She, of spectral grace and ethereal face, fills the shadows of my steps. A surge of sweet words, melodious inklings haunt the hollows of my heart. Turn to embrace her, to finally face her, am struck speechless by the light of her thin halo. Be still shuddering soul. Let her shimmer come and go.

Nodded off earlier this evening.

Heartless
Adrift in dark upon the fringe of some swift dream, she may be dead. Disembodied fingertips claw deep into her naked chest, hold open the hollow part in which should rest a precious heart. From her chasm, shoots take shape, leaves unfurl and flowers shake. Fingers uproot all the striving life living in place of her nowhere heart. Tatters drift my way. Catch them. Take them. Run away. Before I can replant her soul the softest of sounds shakes. Awake.