we wore our hearts
in sticker on
polyester sleeve
while whale bone
held us to north
and nightfall
— waiting
for ghost-trees
to give over and
bring blood home
cellophane crackling
under our feet of
cruel winters
ashen, for that is
how we lost our
home
Category: writing
ashen
steel skies stolen
there are days
i wish it would just
rain & rain & rain
wash everything away
down the drains &
carry us to a place
where we could
finally meet again
you could say, “hey” &
i could say, “hi” &
though we’ve never met
we could be friends
or maybe lovers
like we were before
we fell out of dream
our steel skies stolen,
some days
i wish it would just
rain.of berry and elder
of berry red and elder
i press my blood there
a thumbprint between
eye and dusk shadow
beauty as naked is
forgive this romance—
your night drawn in
fingerbones alone
i kiss you when you
dare to look away;
beat your heart closer.
i know i know
these are weary ways
to cast in cold
the frost alone
come now,
lead us walk
rose stones to
water waiting...over graves tonight
with deadwood limbs
and ash grey heart
we sing scrimshaw
over graves tonight
daring winter winds
of ripping breath away
a rime of braided rope
ever taut and untamed
salt my lips in evensong
and stolen night awayDares
I feel I am crossing liminal spaces of late — between dusk and shadow, slipping between night and day.
I’m not sure if it is the hours, or maybe it is these days. But there is a persistent tug of flux, a drawing in and release. I grow disinterested in the machinations of the embrace of doing things the same way day by day. It seems much more interesting to drift and fade, and it is a mistake of mine to expect my object to all subjects to feel the same.
Snip. Snip. Snip. A painfully slow arcade of cutting the linen laid bare before me, watching with wry, droll amusement at times as supporting threads give way to unraveled snapping instead of waiting for Atropos to come by and give a release clean.
Into the mists, then. Who dares follow? Who dares dream?
Fox cries razor through white, quickly filled in. Crows announce the edges of dark with cacophonic chatter as they discuss the next and the next and the—
Lost, who dares remain unfound?
Bookstore blues
Henry, he walked all jazzy like he was ceiling tall. But he was only French and overqualified to sell books at the bookstore for minimum wage, as he liked to remind us regularly in his French accent. ONree, he would correct anyone looking at his name badge. Why can’t you American’s get it right?
But maybe it was just some of us. Not all Americans. I couldn’t say. Besides, for all of his self-imagined height, he was five-foot-nine. Just like me. I suppose he would have said it was 175 centimeters, which is not wrong. Just very Henry.
And while his primary goal while working was to avoid working, he did like his jazz and got mortally offended when you told him, okay, it is Saturday evening and it is time to play something other than jazz because, well playing jazz doesn’t sell Top-40 CDs, playing Top-40 CDs gets people to buy Top-40 CDs.
(more…)healshake
healshake the bone
rattled with seed, me
emptyhead & healshake
blackfeather, boreal wind
my stone, my stone, my stone
dive ice of waters blue
deep into the through
healshake these bones
rattle them with seed, meat stand
i am drawn to water
to stone rising above
my winter rimes here
gone to crow to feather
myself in shimmer & kohl
a turn to the north
to the water to flow
this slipping at moor winds
could you ever hear?slip
i sometimes walk a line
to slip crow or slip stone
and shed names calling
hollow temptations
i slip to fall, burnt bright
above the wishing well
cutting up the pieces
to scatter to the wind
my lips press a final—Notice of Discrepancy II
The chime promised fresh coffee. Reconstituted, and pleased to be.
The grog was hair-of-the-dog strong — except there’d been no dog, and no drink. Just the memories, still settling, the way a hangover settles. This wasn’t a rub-your-eyes morning. Ellison sat on the edge of the bed and let the coffee burn his throat into submission anyway, as if the body’s problem were anywhere near the throat.
He put on yesterday’s clothes, scratched his ribs, and tried to shake the memories loose. Both the scheduled and the recurring.
The chime dropped all cheer and turned to chide. Ellison checked his watch. Half past fourteen. Late on the skip again, and his boss was past words now, moving to the file itself.
He made a gesture for the chime’s eye. Late, and logged as such. It had decided his fate beforehand.
Feedback, then office chatter, the voice punching through it.
you’re late ell. again. and it looks like you haven’t done your paperwork on the jacobs write-off.
i came in late from the skip. i’ll get to it.
get to it now, accounting is already breathing down my neck about their assets. and…
The and hung there, unfinished, and Ellison winced into the gap. Then the voice came back.
it looks like recovery went tits up as well. can you remind me what i’m paying you for, ell? burning assets and dropped recoveries? that in your job profile? or did they change it?
Ellison did not reply. It was not on-plan.
get to that paperwork. london office asks about their asset at sixteen, and i need something to tell them. gimme a preview in case they call sooner.
Ellison shrugged for the eye. It was logged. Brook did not care about performative gestures, but it was better to have a shrug on file. The chime rewarded Ellison with a happy ding.
he was an idiot.
Brook waited until Ellison could not wait anymore.
he skipped out of shadow. the target took offense. he died for it.
no one checked for an eye?
Ellison thought about it. And then made it a second time.
we scanned. nil. oldtown, though. there were windows.
It was Brook’s turn to pause.
fuckin’ limeys. all cock, empty cranium. gimme that report, stat.
A last screech of feedback, and the line died. Ellison sat with a punch-list gone long and that dog barking in his head.
So he did the only sensible thing: He lit up.
It was logged.
Note: These “Notice of Discrepancy” titled posts are an attempt to step well outside my comfort zone when it comes to narrative framing. I have strict rules that I’ve established for myself that I follow on these pieces, although it may often seem scattershot. I apologize in advance if something doesn’t work as intended. It is still an interesting experiment, regardless of the ultimate success.