is this thing on?
[inaudible—
steel wheel and flint—
breathing out—
more inaudible—]
yeah man. two fingers. neat.
[off-mike laughter / on-mike laughter]
oh fuck no, don't you dare.
rocks are for wussies who
don't really like their whiskey,
but like to pretend they do.
[the sound of a glass set down on wood]
aintcha heard of a fucking coaster?
jesus. [more shuffling sounds]
it might be shit wood veneer, but
show some respect, willya?
[machine wheels turn—
new voice enters]
do you mind if we just to the chase?
can i be blunt?
[nervous laughter—
first voice returns— sound
of someone sipping]
sure, sure. let's get on with it. exclusive
access, might as well take
advantage of it. ask away ask away.
why do you eat them?
Category: writing
interview
wounded
Photo by Jon Sailer on Unsplash chain link silvered with
scarlet & black tobacco ties
swaying on the wind
laced leather around that
wear-my-hair-long,
the painted hills still sing
ever the dancing the ghost
against a world hellbent
on feeding the hate machineElegia
It was the first surreal death in my life when I discovered you had died. If it was you who had died, that is. But I cannot imagine anyone else having a name cut so close to yours, with a birthdate much the same.
After your Troubles, I wonder that it might not have been staged, this dying season. I can see that it might have been spoken into being, so that you might finally be free — though I let go any jesses I might have held scores of years ago, so someone or something else kept you from flight. It was hardly me who held the tether anymore. Perhaps it was your own hands that gave to bind?
You were too young… but you were apparently speaking. And I am in no position to interrupt.
All the stars fall for your passing, leaving we the living both haunted and unforgiven.
Follow your freedom road. May its medicine heal. May you find some rest.
Fracture
Photo by Евгения Егорова on Pexels.com It began as a fracture, the kind that forms on the thin ice when the breaking point is reached from much too much weight put upon it from above.
Though it was our memory and not ice, there was still the audible crack that could be heard over the firestorm as it raged over us, consuming with words meant to puncture our flesh like arrows full drawn on a great bow. Name calling like thrown stones and razor spite in a cutting rain that fell upon our heads. It was not that long ago that we embraced Mr. Wendell, but the rains came (as they eventually will) and he was given over to the middens for the sake of survival. So much for cohabitation and burning the white sheets…
And so, our memory cracked in spiderweb, the baby screamed, and we saw the cascade of a dream crumble to the dirt in the name of filthy lucre and the pale. You get what you give, they said, and you gave hate.
Perhaps, but we were loving in how we hated.
I wrapped my blind eyes in linen, hung my head, feeling the fracture claw at my own brittle past begin to sunder. I walked away and grew old, unable to hold onto the younger days.
tossing a rune — 24sep25
hagalaz i step between floe
and river run
waiting for to
carry me homeA rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is hagalaz, which has a core meaning of “hail”, which was associated with potential, transformation, renewal and change; hail is imagined a seed from which change will arise.. Hagalaz is also seen as representative of things beyond our control: a clash between fire and ice.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
a mirage
hands all at shivers
guns all tremble at those
gone to ghost, should
the tales told be true
is it relief?
is it bounty?
those dust-weathered
posters have lost
their razor's edge
bootblack and road
another foot, another mile
another dime in
a fistful of dirtHorses
Photo by Raychel Sanner on Unsplash “Can you hear it? The wind is calling to carry.”
She stood away from me, turned away from the buildings, the trees and me, her black hair blowing on the gathering breeze as the skies grew flint to match the color of her eyes she wore before the turning away. I did not doubt her eyes could change colors to match her mood, I had seen it happen many time before. Her mood was that of the coming storms, unsettled, roiling and only barely constrained — and so she now wore flint and heather where most people wore mere eyes.
(more…)time to threads
time to threads sever.
pluck thin at beak to hand
frayed twist of warp & wool
sunder and scissor send needle
razor cascade the skin through
blister thorn blister torn
lost teeth at crumble, too
time to threads sever,
slumber, forget there was ever
a tunetossing a rune — 22sep25
jera while most eyes gaze backwards
from summer's twilight hours
wistful and melancholic
with a crooked smile and raised hood
i melt into the coming night
the song of ravens calling me homeA poem prompted by a randomly selected Elder Futhark rune.
Today’s rune is jera. Jera has a translation of “year” and has also been translated as “harvest”. This rune is representative of cycles, the “wheel of the year”, the union of opposites (implied by the summer half of the year ending, winter half of the year beginning), balance, as well as cause/effect relationships.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
