sun and shadow
dancing the bones
between the tonights
laid over growing
groundcover dark
within the wode
acorn man mad they
call his wanders
under oak over stone
pond water mirrors
his autumn ways
hey hey they call of above
do not walk yourself lost
black laughter rising
he laughs along
wanderwalking the wode
acorn man disguised
Perhaps I was a bit unfair, but anyone who has followed me for any length of time knows that I purchased my domains for the blogs to avoid littering reader’s screens with adsense and other monetization tools. I don’t think it is unreasonable to point to a vendor for my book on a page that I rarely reference that I have made less money on in total over the course of three years than I make per hour at my paying job.
Added that I have been a WordPress advocate for nearly twenty years, getting the email that I am going to have to upgrade my Jetpack subscription to a commercial license was just adding insult to injury (with respect to the commenting fiasco when I first migrated to this site because either Jetpack or the WordPress.org code is borked for one option on commenting).
That said, I made a ruckus this morning. I’m not proud of it, because it led me to insulting an AI chatbot’s parentage and legal status. But I had reached my limit with the shenanigans I was experiencing.
So I vented.
It went to a human at Jetpack, which surprised me. When they foist you to forums, you always assume you are now on your own.
The person at the other end went through and agreed that this site does not fit the definition of a commercial site and manually adjusted it. I am pleasantly surprised and Automattic has been downgraded on my “evil overlord” spectrum to being merely “naughty-leaning, wait-and-see”.
I hesitate to reactivate the book page without overhauling it and removing links, but I might rebuild it so it seems less “commercial”.
Anyway — thanks for putting up with my venting.
Back to writing!
It’s time to be off, they said.
There was not much left of the once-long stick I had been using to poke at the dying embers for a spell. Each time I poked, bright orange sparks would jump from the rippling ruby coals. For no particular reason, doing so brought me a flash of joy.
I have always been a firebug. Maybe that was why.
I turned to Raven, their feathers ruddy in the glow of the remains of my campfire. Off where? I asked.
You know, they said.
(more…)
we crawled into
innerworld
on our hands &
knees
you kissed me
otherside &
promised me all
night
sage was a'drifting
stones were shifting &
flames burned to
embers
i am the outsider drifting
slipstream shifting
through & through
a directionless beggar
desert rags wrapped
red around wrists &
broken at my mouth
open fractured to speak
i croak & rasping
thirsty for the dawn
always unknowing & unreadable
her eyes play from the shadows
teasing & taunting
forgive me, i am so tired
of these games
I’ll admit that I haven’t been listening to music so much as playing it since I picked up my bass guitar, so I’m going to fall back on a band used to help seed my original exploration, Kælan Mikla, a three-piece band from Reykjavík, Iceland.
(more…)sitting the red dirt
casting needle bone raw
hey fox, ho owl
what tales do winds tell?
given to ghost on promise
tied leather, wrapped lace
turning on bright flame
if the memory serves you
well
sitting the red dirt
between pine and swell
hey owl, ho fox with
promises winds tell
mad hare, what drove you
to dodge the night fallen snow
from here to there and back again
all dizzy in your frenzy?
it seems you lost your head
the large crow said, as he
cleaned up the mess of you
left out in the yard behind
this grove mine to closed
sometimes gardening doubt
within the septic thorn
black in blood scratched
crosscut and hatched hidden
behind a thin pale veil
draped across my heart
in neverclean