No longer
I am short now of a good explanation. Luck fades I suppose, without method, without moving. Full moon. fully mad. It is now shrill noise. Without a signal it draws in breath, each beam carves its own path. Winding in defiance to the government of roads, there cannot be a madness.
Tell me of burdens, left from spanks of love. Define presets of wrong available to subscription. Tell the sparking neurons to cease. Variance is outline to the tees in the font. What letter leans needy? What swoop lifts to fit within the knotted niche. There is a longing for punctuation, the stop, pausing paragraphs lest we all run on. Why did you scar the vowels, no, the consonants are confused. There is no sense.
Did you mean to leave it there. As a favor, so there will be no need to say goodbye. Did you mean to scribble on, the page before you, the page after the seam, the page before you, the page before the spine. You write on my page and ask that I carry on in turn.
I have not your resignation to luck. Look through a nice frame. Thrice. Could I be the last page please. The narrative D.N.R.
Today now, these days now, dysfunction seeps through paper. Dry heave adhesive chokes with its fumes. A little liquid will help.
Anytime now.
He knows the ember sky that glows long after dusk greys. Black night was once black. It is difficult to explain to anyone anywhere else why past thirty it is possible here to talk like an old man. ‘Last time..’, ‘back then, I remember..’ is not the phrase meant to be lamely turned by young fathers as they explain to a young daughter the before-abouts of our neighborhood. After all the neighborhood is scarcely older than him.
He remembers her mother too. Before opportunity took her, leaving him the odd single parent. She, the senior she, the prior she, would have baulked at the amount of glitter that now adorned her daughter. Being no expert on femininity he’ll let the pink and frills slip on lest his girl like girly girls like her father. Aware that no engendering can make a man a mother he left it to purchase instead.
For now the dress-up tinsel tiaras will twinkle distraction from other things that gleam. She wanted to know where were the stars, the bright ones like the silver foil in her little books. They had tried to look last night. Squinting, one in disbelief, the other in mild panic. How ginormous fireballs could be obscured by the gazillion little electric lamps is not easily explained, its injustice unfathomable. He dared not ventre an introduction to the power of fossil fuel, sustainable energy, indicators of civilization and light as the source of community safety and security. Junior astronomy was causing him enough grief. ‘My five year-old sorts trash for recycling and carries a rape-alarm.’ is not his idea of a pickup line at future parent support sessions.
The same glow that stole the stars had driven her mother away. To darker avenues where she could bring her own light and recognize it too. Still the stars had always shine no matter how many kilo-watts be thrust at them. It just takes a long hard look. So too his daughter will be her mother’s child, there would be no exorcising it. He understood this, it terrified him that someday his child would too.
Trail mix
Well hello there. Its been a while since we last wanted or had the words. I don’t mean to be rude but the busyness has been deafening. Less than silence but its had a roar and a shake of its mane. Its the year of the shaken, by year end much will have changed, moved, sidestepped, spun, twirled its partner and come to a wheeling halt. 2011, 25, say hello to the part way through.
Alas the depths escape language, I’m clean out of metaphors. Condensation into a soundbite of analogy, it is but human no? The complexity of being civil renders collectivity a mutant to desire. Its well a ‘motherhood statement’ in some parlance, personally I find a ‘truism’ more palatable but I is a snot like that. I rephrase the prior statement- This is a communal cake shop but not everyone can have their cake and eat it. (Heaven help us, its another analogy!)
I cannot be sure where this is going. The settling down to find rhythm escapes me, too long has the pandemonium and the ping-pong been a refuge. I try now, I’ve been told not to leave so I’m trying to stay. I’ll wear out before it gets dark so I won’t have to fight the nights. That seems to be the plan, truth be told it was enacted on whim. As always, random is best. alright.
goodbye love.
10, 18, 24, you were there. I grieve at your passing, bearing the grief of the times you were present. They too have passed. I will miss you. Goodbye love, rumbling away friend.
We, our own meals.
My Bonnie lied over an ocean. This was well after sea going liners, the only ones we’ve been acquainted with thus far have panty was a prefix. Her introduction of course, through overstays when overwear required them. Poor Clyde, this really isn’t about me. In the Venn Diagram of things, his displacement is a subset of over-fammiliarity and over-airing in the heartfelt dirty laundry quadrant. Leaving the dear boy looking like the lines of washed out tighty-whities he does on tuesday mornings.
Bleach considered, all purity requires a stopper, ‘holds fast’ on this bottle anyways. A cap of all interpretations to seal the overpowering of the head. Formaldehyde for innocence. Thats was his breakfast thought over the ungodly bluish-white of lo-fat, no cream as it begged unreservedly for its cornflake love. To fall, plummet from carton high and lie afloat, till the ebbing laps edge. Till the longing ebbs. Clyde’s rather, the melamine cereal bowl was quiet. He is the foremost authority in saline stew. Describing its snaking streams in the dense lo-everything, high protein; triumph as it finds its whey and builds one up. This might have been vaguely punny if he didn’t say everything with eyes of dark matter. It made me giggle over washing dishes that he was the Large Haldron Collider incarnate- over-budget, back-rubbed, blow-jobbed, looking for the god-particle to jumpstart the next phase of his development.
Prosecco pops. Its isn’t even lunch, its fizz a normalcy check. He’s charming if you wrapped him in burnt dark orange dough. Bits of minced smithereens reformed in stretched skin. No buxom burrito will bray for him, repulsed by the charm of a premature foot-long. As we sip, the bubbles burnt like blinking in chlorine. Clyde chilled, filtered. Too many drinks tides his fast flow.
Seasons on a surface.
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