February 2025
Like Us All
February 20, 2025
Liquor drunk mind tumble over memory glass crack sharp edge of you nowhere-going all stuck in a spot where the grass is worn like an old shirt's elbows and Gene's knees never kneels down it's too low and you may never get back up arthritis can have other plans age old times for new age minds that clock tock tick over each second's dirty hands with over grown nails impractical for picking up anything and moving on to the minute hand with ingrown nails bite into skin so soft Ayoe! Pull back out of it's mouth as it gasps for breath get off your knees and run through the streets and duck into the side streets and hide in the dumpsters where the footsteps can't find you a window opens with music pouring out of it like guitar tears tear in the ear somebody yells at a cat who threw a plant to its death falling out of the window like death soil confetti it returns to the earth where it never knew as it was born into captivity like us all around here
Fire Follows
February 19, 2025
The houses along the street are all connected by fire that validates the sirens wail in the streets Lilacs bow their heads in prayer remembering when God walked and not crawled like a lion in the street animalistic and rabid, setting fire to houses all lined up in a row. Screen door open mouths are saying they are happy to not be involved in the orgy of flames across the street where wood moans out in charred orgasms then crumble in a lover's arms, calling him the sun. Hold onto me, firefighter, and don't let me drown in sea-fire and save the cat too. Water cools and turns to ice, locking fire inside so it can't get out. We need to go far away where fire can't catch us. Run through the woods past the brook, past the place where the pages of a book lay on the ground that were ripped out and charred on the edges. You can't read them because they are in dream language. You don't have time anyway - run! Fire follows, and you have to make it to the sea!
What The Trees Know
February 18, 2025
That is how the head of the tree nods and sways, acknowledging the wind's whispers. It told it something in its ear. I don't know if we will ever know what it was. The mirror keeps our secrets and the stone keeps the earth's secrets, so what does the air keep with the trees? Birds do not know the language, but they feel it. They know it in their hearts, but can't decipher it. The sundial shadows fall backwards, and the world is sleeping. For now. It's a quiet moment until the chaos comes again. The wind knows. The trees know. Our mirrors know, and the stones know. It's in residual vibrations that come like memories every so often to the natural. The continuation of war machines and gunfire cuts through the peace like a knife in butter, and we all melt away. Then snap! The memories are gone, and the quiet comes again. The fire in the belly of the earth gets vomited out through mountains on the other end of us. It has to release somehow, the pressure of the tension that knots inside. All we can do is cry our lava through our eyes and hope that is going to be enough. The trees sway their heads to a melody in the air. The ash falling down like snow. Is it volcanic or fall out? I guess we will know when the sundial sets itself on the right time again.
Somewhere Inside It's Belly
February 17, 2025
Slip start through the sterling silver hook of the moon's light that smells like steel cutlery after they've been washed in sunlight, starlight tonight is not the first time I saw you, looking like little pins stuck on black velvet up there and blinking twinkling like wishes from children that come to you, and you hold them as data that you will use when they are old enough to gain their dreams and they walk the world with no visions or wishes. Dark like that water that is over there in the earth's mouth surrounded by container ship fish that glint under spotlights from the eye that is off the edge of the harbour that knows the way back home for you little swearing sailors who travelled so far with your boxes of things and your colourful accents that always make me smile. Heaven sometimes comes in the oddest places. This cold night at the rocks by the docks and the wind wild over the city like a groaning old man who is angry about politics and the goddamn young people who know nothing about life. I think I'm a woman who is drawn to this water because it holds something for me. I know it's somewhere inside its belly.
Corpse Honey
February 16, 2025
Cobwebs settled on her, tieing her to the chair in the corner of the yellow and green kitchen now sun aged walls in spots and the white lace curtains now beige. Insect weavers worked on her hair as little stylists. Twenty goddamn years and nothing moved. Nothing touched. The pile of junk flyers on the step counted time like sands in an hour glass. Nothing continued on except the world around her. She never knew, she just stared into a mouldy cup of coffee until the root rot of her legs collapsed down into the earth, making her soil and worm food. A record skipping in her mouth stuck on one world. That doesn't really matter because nobody can hear it. It is meant only for god's ears anyway. The rain eventually turned her to mud. The house started to crumble from neglect. Kids in the city made up stories about the creepy old house. Then a chubby man behind a desk called in metal arms to come and scoop it aside and carry it away. Thieves picked like vultures at the leftovers. Grass eventually grew over her and flowers bloomed. Bees gathering pollen from the flowers from her soil carried them back to their hives, where the keepers jarred up the honey to nurture the community. She's a part of us all now, and her word will be our last word spoken to God as we are face to face with them.
His Nirvana
February 15, 2025
He is like an open temple that I went to kneel to and worship his hand and knew I was going to be enlightened when I wash him with light of the moon poured from my vessel. I knew him by name and whispered it hidden inside incantations to the sun, he was lost in a feather for some time on the wings of black birds perched in tree tops that know flight and altitude to the nirvana of sky and universes. I chanted his name at the window to come buy and when he stood before me, I knew I was the lucky one to know his eyes by their amber brown idols, deep and true. I knew his hair by touch as they shake down in my hands in silk. I knew him. I knew his body and how he made love to me like we were lovers in love. But we weren't. This was purely transactional spiritually. I knew he would fly away again by the path of the wind currents that hovered over the sea and that he would return in the form of another in a twist of fate chance meeting on some sort of street that was cracked and broken off at the curb of the noise and whirl of traffic lights and neon glows in rain puddles. I saw him reflected in.
Good Night City
February 14, 2025
Open host management of lost keys to someone's heart attack blank stare into the nighttime payment methods credit card, cash or check your wallet somebody stole it thief in the night on a mare to get away mirror teeth sidewalk shatter scattering crowds of crows that touch earth and sky fly away from here if you know what's good for you. Tell nobody of what the sea saw and told the rocks. Keep that secret between you and a fallen wing feather caught wet in the side street of the backstreet of the city's hungry alleys that swallow you whole down their throats, and you don't come out the other side. Locked car security alarm screams for help into the night guard dog asleep on the beat underneath the garden grass in an earth bed tomb womb now covered in ice and prays for spring that will never come it seems. Good night dog, good night spring, good night tragically beautiful city alley throat that gulps bones and hair.
Take Your Medicine
February 13, 2025
This is a symptom not a cure the gun that shoots the pill that lodges in your throat gasp catch the breath that's running away down the street to the back of the pharmacy for a back door deal of blood bags for the stock pile of symptoms due from last month's rent overdue payment to the doctor who knows that its all a placebo and a band aid to keep the mouth of the cut skin shut up. It knows too much of pill bottle cash grabs, and let go of blank prescription addictions. The cabinet empty, looted for its promise of relief, and just falls short of a cure. No remedy for clinical loneliness of sterile halls white and silver locked doors of doctors on the telephone line veins to take your blood out of the static body with the nasty cough up metal phlegm of star saw blades and hair caught up in your throat drain. Empty it out. Put it in a bag to drip back into your veins to keep you alive for the moment.
Ghost Town
February 12, 2025
Robotic faces look up weirdly at the light of the worm coloured moon that flashed in their eyes like ice cream white and melting like a candle that pours over the land like hardening candy that wax flavoured ones that was held in question of wither you eat it or not. The vision of the future corroded the gears inside the bots that creaked and groaned the horror of industry industrial clang and clashing crashing out through the streets from the echoes of dead warehouses that closed their eyes long ago. The concrete has cracks along the sides like wrinkles showing its age. the liquor that was emptied in the bottle in the corner gathering dust. No life came from it other than the ants that busy themselves inside. The cost is what happens when you pile sand in the mouths of the people and only paint your hand green with money. The sadness of ghost towns wail out in a groan of loss and remembrance when it was something. Now empty of children that played and voices that laughed that is the melancholy of time. The moon looks on. Down at empty robotic machines that are silent and drop their eyes to the ground. Dimmed and empty of light.
The News At 6
February 11, 2025
Static transmission inside your eyes has no known script for the newscaster who rests silent at his desk with an empty page in front of him. The apple red light in the studio turns apple green and no words enter the microphone. Cut to a commercial. The speaker of your lips blares out an advertisement of straw and candles. Not much else is said after that. The dead air fills the room and I wonder if I should turn the dial to another station. You get up, look at the window and see how the leaves have left the trees and repaced with ice. You can't tell if they are quartz crystals in this pourch light aura. Small spotlight with the darkness of the unknown just a few steps out further. Something chatters in the trees, and some flash of an eye snaps you back to the news to see which is the better choice on the crashing stock market when it hits rock bottom the only way is up so by now and hope for the best. Drown it out with this glass of water. It flushes out the newscaster with a tsunami wave drawing a close to our broadcasting day.
Tamed Wolf
February 10, 2025
Super moon lemon drop taste in the air where the beams fall over the coffee table sugaring my books and resting in a glass of maple mead adding a spice flavour on my lips when it should be you. Empty of emptiness so is that full or half full? Only the glass knows but the bottle holds the true knowledge in time. Ring my phone chimes out awakening the cat perched like a bird at the end of the sofa arm. The fifty five times I choose to ignore the wolf howls outside the window. You capture my eye's corner view like a thief as you wake from sleep to tell me your dream of ghosts and wildflowers that were housed in its ribcage. I pour you a glass of mead and we watch the fire lick the brick womb. I tell you your eyes are a shot in the dark of blue glint of steel that can sever the heart of every woman preventing her from transforming and running with the wolves outside again.
Water Speaks His Name
February 9, 2025
What creed have you when your charms lie, and your footsteps fall not so heavy in the snow that fell last night. Crunch of ice and joints that ache under the cold arthritic set in the time they snapped and you healed not properly. Bones break but hearts don't so easily. Hiss and walk away. This is not the soulmate I know will be there. He hides from me. I know he must exist and think I will find him one day, hidden in the leaves and grass and under a stone. I had given myself to the night too many knights for the taking. I know better now. I can walk past in my own path and hold high my head so I can see far ahead where he is. I will find the lover and the soul will know it when I find him. He's just beyond the moon and the sea sighs his name. I know it. I heard it. The emptiness of night says a lot when the water speaks in his voice and the music rings a new tune when the sun rises up. I get out of your bed, hear his name on the water and walk to it and say good morning to someone who lives under the water's mirror.
Sky Floss
February 8, 2025
You were as empty as a thought when we met. You didn't know about how the sky floss tasted until I taught you the bohemian loom of sky and earth and the threads that flutter over the horizon that lay on your tongue like sweet ozone fluttering down. Star dust sugar and sweet the sun warm candy treat of the white chocolate moon. This world is a mesmerizing thing if we hear past noise and see through the power struggles of tower dwelling madmen.. I told you to taste the sky and let it shake it's floss hair in your mouth to reach into your soul. The afternoon was too hot for sleeping and though we were tired we spoke in the sand, and watched the boats drift on nothingness like a film strip in the sky. Do you still live like I taught you? Do you still smell like soil and leaves? Did you loose your free spirit heart to the mundane and chaos of life? I hope not. Remember what I taught you. Where ever you are, you can always reach up and touch light, and taste the floss blue sky. Don't ever let your bohemian heart fall to dust.
Mute Ghosts
February 7, 2025
On the other side of my mind where the table is dusty and the floor needs vacuuming. The coffee cup is chipped and hasn't been washed, with the ring of Saturn inside. I watch the clock to keep time in my head. Long walks of hour hands control the sun to rise and set on cue. Where are you in this? Where do I want you to be? The door is unlocked waiting for you to make the choice to come in. You throw your coat over the arm of the chair and sit down and cut your lip on the cup and blood mixes with coffee and the drop is a ruby against the table cloth. You smile and look at the moon outside the window as the hour hand pulls backwards. I give you white chocolate cubes to go with the eyes of lapis flecks that are now in place of your eyes and you talk to me backwards as the dove sits on your shoulder and the crow on mine. They have their own separate conversations. All then is silent and the dust has settled on both of us. The hour hand broke years ago and we're still here in one spot. Unmoved. Nothing more to speak. Our voice is gone. A bomb goes off outside and we are still in one spot. The falling stars clang to the ground around us. Still, unmoved. Silent. Staring into each other. The veil lifted off the earth and universe drifts by. Unmoved. Mute. Staring into each other.
The Idols That Keep Watch
February 6, 2025
I heard about the idols that stand over your bed as you sleep. They watch you and keep you well. The tea coloured sky seeps in through the window but only to caress your face as you dream about 1000 miles away from where you are, to a place near the ocean where you once called the name of someone you know has no name. The empty earth draining out of the other side, you knew it would catch you in its whirl sooner or later. You didn't ask for this. You can't call on the bed idols as they only come to you in sleeping. This is awake land and realness is no match for dreams. The night goes on without a hault. Painting the sky gradually until it blacks everything out, and you return to the idol bed where you sleep once more, ignoring the real and opt for the dreamscapes where we meet and I called you my lover and we made love in the bed where the idoles bowed their heads to turn their eyes inward to give us the privacy. I told you I would return. I never did. I moved out of the dream world into reality where you can't find me anymore. You know I'm in the ocean but you don't know where. I am a shell at the bottom under coral hiding until you leave. Then the moons hand pulls me up with the tide and I walk on land with my legs to run far from the ocean, and far from your bed. You sleep through it all not knowing my movements. The idols don't speak my tale. They understand. They looked inward knowing love is a danger that women must run from.
Attempting To Grow Something
February 5, 2025
Industrial piping and raspberry crush red down the sink you hear a clogging gurgle and know its going to be something to drain soon. The clang of something down there rings out. You figure the seeds have grown and you will now have to harvest their hair out to sprinkle on salads or pastas and eat what you sow with a smile regardless what it tastes like. The empty bowl will fill itself with the tale of someone who thinks they know how to garden but every thing is unripe and dies before it grows. The soil knows what you do. It knows it's wiser in its mystic knowledge of sun and moon and tells the seeds not to mistake moonlight for sunlight as they will know when to sleep and awake in it's womb. The worms keep time and wait for the rain to subside when the humidity comes to make them come to the surface and breathe finally instead of strangled in roots of raspberry trees and dandelions who shake their dust everywhere to cover the air with more seeds. Like cats they curl and swirl until they rest in the sun. Black on gold, silver on green and everything splashes it's colours to awaken the dark pockets of the yard until everything dances with colour. It's life from the dark and the seeds you plant will grow this year and not be just barren corpses under the garden soil.
Root Leash
February 4, 2025
Wildflowers stand along the highway sides hitching rides but their roots don't let them go too far, and they are pulled back home, like on a leash that goes so deep in the earth their root systems come out the other end like fingers stretching out wide at the bottom of the globe. They sun their face in the sunbeams and throw their heads back in ecstacy at the pollenating bees that come to visit. Seeds dust along the air of the dandy lions' manes that are soon bald from wind and only they travel far floating on paragliders in the sun until they disappear from sight in the vapor waves of highway streets. Trees shake their heads at the child flowers as birds make for barrettes in their green lofty hair and breaches of little squirrels nestles in for a sleep on this afternoon where I have nothing to do, but watch cars make their way to the highway and dream at the window.
Sadly Febuary 3rd installment was accidentally deleted.
Snowy Night
5 minute timer
February 2, 2025
Sweet cherry air opened up to the moonlight even in this dead of winter when everything is frozen, even hearts it seems. We move to the sound of the music of our headphones, and move into to like the way the moon calls it's water child to come follow it pulling us too towards it's motherly glow. The swirl of wind bits into our hair and we move our scarf closer to our face and feel cozy inside our leather jacket armor. The cars speed past busy like beetles metal and shine flashing. We stop the music and get on our bike and keep peddling until finally the heat of our body starts to become our own heater against this cold night. We make it home and warm by the heater. The wind disappointed it can't run through the grass of our hair like a child. We make a hot coffee and watch the snow. It seems to make the whole world fall silent, as it seems to stop its chaos for a moment. This is how we spend the night. Warm, quiet and reflective, and silencing loud voices that shout about war and politics and it's just me, this coffee, this page, and a record playing in the other room. This is what it is to be at peace.
Lovers in the Snow
5 minute timer
February 1, 2025
The amythyst that is held in your mouth, just under your tongue, speaks openly about your dreams. It told me that this afternoon, as I lay with you on the sofa and we talked about nothing but air and sand, all the ocean in your eyes moved towards the window to see the sky that met you with such ice and snow that it would cover us up for the rest of the afternoon. The warmth of ice insolation cradled us, and we slept in each other's embrace like a hypothermia slumber that we were cozy inside of. I am your cocoon to be the moth that looks for light; whenever you see it, you are drawn to it, and you stop at nothing to get at it. I admire that. Your strength of light and the last of the cobwebbed parts of the books that lay dusty at our sides fall open to tell us the tale about two lovers who lay in snow and hold onto each other for warmth and light. She is His ocean, and He is Her moon, that pulls her forward. As the afternoon draws on, these two lovers drape the sky to the earth like a soothing blanket, shaking off the snow from their nudity to find the grass awakening to green life.
Go back to the top of the page.
January 2025
City and Country
5 minute timer (10 seconds over to finish final sentence.)
January 31, 2025
Live electrical wires slither like snakes in the dark, sparking and slithering down to the drains where the rain ignits them in a crackle hiss. Jawbone toothbrush of drain grates that filter out the leaves, mostly. The pylons that stretch in the distance are slightly seen tipping over the fog that is settling in now. This rain is a cleanser for the dust of the city. Wash it all off the buildings, mother; it's dirty and grimy, and I want to have it all erased and replaced by trees and streams and animal children who curl under the roots of old trees and snooze in little hovels. Their chests are big with breath, and life is quiet. The moon and sun take their shifts calmly, and everything has a hush lull of slumber. Not here, where cars crash into street light soliders and swearing comes from the mouths of buildings, and hidden messages lay inside the tagged dumpsters, whining under their garbage-filled mouths, hoping for it to be emptied, but the garbage men don't come until next week.
The Song (Love Poem to Janis Joplin)
5 minute timer
January 30, 2025
The only song that can make her cry is A Woman Left Lonely by Janis Joplin the record black and reflective, showing her shadow looking into it as Janis sang her soul. There's so much to life and so little too. When music touches the heart and the soul is soothed into dreams. Launching in the sun and the washed out darkness is liquidfied and turns into something good...vinyl, music for it to hear back at itself; it's soothe and calm. The cycle spins; records are forever, well, until you break them, but there will always be a song that will live in many forms. From mouth to tape, to record, to mp3 to cd to soul and soul to soul, it is a shared love with many around the world. Music heals and feels, and it sings us into new beginnings and has the power to romance and also crush down social adversities. Much more power than anyone can hold. The singer and listener. Janis and me, you to your song, and sing your song proud and never let it be silenced. It's all healing in times of doubt. Honey, sing me your Kozmic Blues one more time.
Ice Demons
5 minute timer
January 29, 2025
Silent snow steps slippery into the streets and whirls under night lights that line the way, highlighting those who huddle from the storm inside coat cacoons and ruffles drift in the wind of white whisp lace. Ice hanging like ornamental Christmas decorations off trees and fences, empty spaces between wood and ground all around the cold in the air, fresh in the nostrils, and you flutter in and out of warm thoughts to get you through until you make your way home into the heat and comfort. We dream of summer coconuts and 50 types of ice cream that melt in the heat that then drains down your hands like a melted candle to drip like sweet white blood on your shoes and the sand of the airy beaches, and you drip sunlight into your hair and skin glow. Not here. This frozen empty streets of blizzard cravings of sun. This is winter's depths that swallow you whole with no mercy until you find shelter to run from its terror teeth grip of ice and frost. Close the door quickly as it claws at the door and windows, leaving streaks of ice as a warning.
Land and Sea and Sky
5 minute timer
January 28, 2025
Crystalized style of fortitude and and collateral damage celestrial slam door crash of mind and matter, lost in the beach sand hairshirt worn out with holes where the damp gets in. Empty the tub and watch it all go down the drain too late for a plug to stop it, and you can't reach that far down the throat to make it gag it back up like a poison of hair and spiders lost web threads that hang in floating silence facing the moon, catching flies but letting the smell of lilacs through the only thing that is pure and free on this night that is too hot for sleeping, so you stand on the back porch to drink in the moonlight and listen to the radio on the table inside the door. Neighbour's smoke curls like a question mark in the light on the other side of the fence. You don't see them but know of their existence and the lost book that is somewhere behind a bookshelf that you wonder what page it fell open to. What was that trying to tell you, and you were too lazy to pick it up from behind the shelf? It could tell you that knives that hang just above the cypress on the other side of the village will fall on the chosen one to sever the ties between land and sea.
Born to Run
5 minute timer
January 27, 2025
Cattails that grew under the bridge that would reach it's arms over the swamp would toss in the air. Looking like hotdogs that were cooked over campfires. The smell was muddy and herbal, with an underlying rot of roots that lived and died in the edges of rocks, and pepples are left to tell their life stories. Not much in the way for the frogs that used to be here and are now gone somewhere. They would hide under pourches of people who would wonder how a little frog could hop so far from the swamp. Grandma's cat brought one bearly alive to lay at our feet one day. It's pickle coloured body gleaming in the sun, hardly breathing. We ran so far that we thought we were a million miles away from the scene. Like we never understood what death meant. WE knew things would die, but we hated seeing it take place. I never thought in a million years at the time that I would know of her passing, and I too ran so far away from home that I thought I was half way across the country. Tears in my eyes looking for any sort of taxi that would take me further where my legs couldn't run anymore.
The Sun Through the Window
5 minute timer
January 26, 2025
You forgot it when you looked into the glass with a world reflected back into your eyes into the mind projected backwards. The flowers died in the vase last week, and you still can't part with them. They start yellowing and wilting to the floor. PLant corpses now live out their day in the corner of the shelf. The dust is gathering in a little pile on the remaining leaves. You give it a shake, and it scatters dust and glitter into the sun like dirty, insense smoke. Beautiful in it's own way. The pattern of the light through the curtinas casts shadow flowers on the opposite wall, and this is around the time the sun hits the window, blinding you if you look at the picture frame, distorting the inside world under the glass. You're blinded and can't see it anyway. So it doesn't matter until you want to remember it later when someone calls you on the telephone to ask you, "Do you remember that time?" I don't have any memory of that time. "Didn't you have a photo of it?" No. I can't see it anymore on the wall. It's lost in light. The nighttime brings it back, and you then remember again, but it's too late to call back to confirm you do remember the tree, the building, and the picnic table off to the right side of the tree. The way the wind blew softly in your hair, the taste of the blue ice cream, and the smell of your hair.
Air Words
5 minute timer (10 seconds over to finish sentence)
January 25, 2025
The tap dripping in the other room is echoing through the house this evening, coming from the dark part of the house like a bone tapping out a message on the wall in spirit communication. Nothing eerie about it. Just a new way of speaking. Sometimes new forms of language adapt to the situation it's found itself in. Locked inside words are let loose in the turn of a key in the safe box to have them pour out of your mouth like an overturned wine glass, all falling to the ground, staining carpets, and the whole room is smelling of words and wine and spilled over sides of voice sounds soon to evaporate into the air to dissipate into nothing, like nothing ever was even said. Lost words and language that are gone only to be whispered by a small few who remember the art of the tongue. You die too fast with it, and the emptiness of regular speech takes place to something less flowery and bland. Every speech is the same. Opened boxes that are emptied out, and you can't get those words back no matter how hard you try to pluck them from the air, and the faded words on the carpet are too washed out to be able to read clearly.
The Cold Coffee
January 24, 2025
The automatic rewind tape of life in the hole whole of it is done now, and underwater, floating in space, suspended, not the sunlight stretching like a cat on the floors of waiting rooms, but the process of reaching for the sun, picking it off the floor, and putting it into your pocket as you are the next one called into the office to have your fortune read by a doctor of sprinkled knowledge that came from the cosmos, PHD of energy. Turn the channel. They just want money for fortunes. The cosmic wheel costs us nothing. I found that sunshine I put in my pocket after I ran it through the washer, unknowing. It's wrinkled now and feels like plastic that is so thin it breaks like fine crystle ice that you crunn underfoot early in the morning on your way to work. Coffee in hand, pressing forward. Past the waiting rooms and down the stairs. Half listening to the news on someone's radio as you pass by something about the economy, but you don't care much. It is what it will be. The coffee is now too cold for drinking.
Clothes Shopping
5 minute timer
January 23, 2025
The shotgun bang of perfume from the store counters, and the floor shines dull the lights above. Mannequins who follow you with their eyes throbbing with doll veins just under the plastic. This is the Sears of a jungle bargain basement of fashion clothing vines of trash fashionites who wear them once and discard them in the streets to clog up the arteries of the sewers. I choose to be naked of your influence and dig into thrift shop abstracts and magazine ink runs like mascara tears with my mind's absence. Clothing drawers impound the names of bohemian threads of past souls who lived and continued in these articles. Retro revisioned in the here and now. An experiment of self-expression like an abstract painter splashing haphazardly over the canvas, claiming everything is art. Splash my body with my own art and spare the trendy standard. In a maze of blond hair, a black strand stands out like a black moon in a white sky.
Night At The Harbour
5 minute timer
January 22, 2025
Watering sculptures that are growing in the ground, soon to be plucked from their spot to be placed in the bottom of the harbour where they wilt and die, and where the instincts of fish don't swim by it. The world sounds muted under there. Distorted muted babbles of the dock workers and the swearing men who throw the ropes down at the shipyards. This is the quiet I crave. Lucky fish. Your silver backs slightly gleam like elongated flat dimes under the surface, flashed by the very bright sunlight bouncing off the moon down into the earth in a cool glow. We feel a sudden hush fall over everything. The swearing coveralls at the shipyards suddenly quietly sipping coffee to help them through the night shift. The cars stopped roaring and all you hear is the ebbs of the little waves these coin fish make as they drift along, unaware of us above busying themselves to their little duties, ignoring man made sculptures and other discarded trash of our human shame. The art and garbage of it all is almost poetic
For My Muse
5 minute timer. (Stopped at the 9 seconds because I drew a blank and satisfied with the ending sentence.)
January 21, 2025
I'm surrounded by books that I know well, and some I've not read yet, and too many that wait in the wings to have me smooth them open and read their words like a lover I can't find you among them. I know you're in there somewhere, that one line in all these books of poetry that define the very essence of you. I don't think I can find it. I place words together and rearrange letters and no matter the language or arrangement, it's not the right words that are you. You are indescribable. You are everything that is beyond words and language and sound. You're higher than what the mind can create and explain. How does that make you feel? Wonderful? It should. You are a wonderful muse but I am the novice poet who can't come up with the right array of language to speak the image of your eyes, or describe your very essence. I don't think I ever can. You don't exist in language. You exist in a space of nothing and air, higher than this world. You are taken to the sky beyond the sky and your warmth ignites the sun. You are only here on earth to remind us all how the divine can work as the ultimate creator of art.
Push Your Face To The Sun
5 minute timer
January 20, 2025
The invasion will provide us all with the leaflet that will give instructions on how to be privileged enough to feel a sense of mirror self under the law of abuse will rust in the lakes of manufactured glory. Nothing will be left out of the circle. Unity and delight in being a human being will happen once more. Notice the sky once more, it will warm and water you back to nourishment. Photosynthesis through our veins of green and blues and up from the soil in our feet will grow us upright again to bend towards the resurrected sun. Darkness don't always last. You need to push it all aside like an unwanted veil that you rise to kiss the lips of the bride and breathe in her perfume of violets and dusty plastic doll heads. You now have something to look forward to. The end and the new day blossoms on the distance, just over there. it will be back before you know it to flood our eyes with gold and empty the sewers of the brown sludge burning it off just beyond the city's limits. Have heart.
Ghost Dreams
5 minute timer
January 19, 2025
Dream keeper keeping time and images waiting for me to sleep to play his film of us at a strange coffee shop, as strangers passing by like we don't know each other. I guess we don't know each other like lovers or friends. Passive acquaintances but you reach for my hand suddenly and I am lost into your world dream sequence of another moment when the rain is now lapping at us as you kiss me to wake me up out of this. But am I really awake? You're not here, but I swear you did kiss me a moment ago. The air is thick with haze dreams and the veil cast over me once again and I found you now in a field. Holding a rake and a rabbit by it's ears. You tell me to come to you and I run the opposite way. I must hide away from you. Your presence too strong and I know of your demands. Get out of here now girl! Run to the other side of this dream realm and jump off the edge. Falling into blackness is better than in the jail of his arms. You'll never be free. The alarm rings and I wake. See you sleeping beside me and question you in my mind. Where were you last night? Beside me? No. You are a wisp of a dream ghost.
Lost Keys
5 minute timer
January 18, 2025
There was no way to crack out of the asphalt and through the walls it's kept us here in this city. The steam in the storm grates like clinched teeth with smoke coming out of them. They will eat you alive if you gave them a chance to. Hey baby, what's your name? Hey I'm talking to you. Walk on and ignore the following buildings and their blinking eyes that focus nightly to each other like some neighbourhood watch that keeps them aware of who enters and exists them, and who they choose to lock out. The key falls into the smoking grates that swallow it never giving it back. It will be shit out outside the city in some cesspool of sewer drainage. Your key to the door that don't want you there. Forget about it. Walk out of here. Get on that next greyhound and get far far away from this city before you are next to get swallowed in to the sewer's guts. Next time empty the trash daily, and dumpster dive in the rich part of town. The trash is nicer but sadly stinks more. Everyone asks who you are and what you are doing, just tell them that you're moving on. Far away. You'll never return. You'll not get eaten alive by nobody.
The Flow of Cash
5 minute timer (went around 20 seconds over to finish last sentence)
January 17, 2025
Blank in our commission we flutter over spikes and leap over the fire that burns below, always just out of our step. Jump through the barrier and into the core where we live out the days of lost knowledge of what things used to be. I know there's a fragment somewhere. We just have to look for it. Fate rolls us towards it every time. Doll head plastic scented flushed and blushed pages of tomes of tombs of knowledge. It sleeps in our minds and opens them up to expose our brains to the light. It can't always be shut off, or turned off like a tap that don't leak in the middle of the night keeping you awake. It will tap on our shoulders and wash the dust off our eyes and we can see new prospects. Cars crash and birds flash and cash flows from one hand to the other but not ours. We have more richness that isn't material. Knowledge, books and wealth of words that can fight material dollars dead phantom coins that trickled like rain into nothingness. Emptiness can't be filled with a bank vault gold bars of the jailhouse. Cracked and bleeding dry hands go filthy with money, gets inside the wounds until their hands are blood red and they finally are able to cry tears again.
The Draft in the House
5 minute timer (I went a about half a minute over because I was in the flow)
January 16, 2025
The way you stop short of draining into the harbour each time the fog comes in, it's like a soundless incantation to the atmosphere. You move on and away from here, dissipating into the steam of the smoke stacks loud groans into the winter's nigh like two mist lions shouting warnings. You return to my lips in the form of a name I keep quiet, and reserved only for the late hours. You are a ghost made of hunger and cravings. I am a human made to wander away from spirits in fog and memory that my body keeps. Ghost hold nothing that is tangible but ache in the soul, and rain on the window accentuating their haunting until the dampness settles into every corner of your bones, and he is the draft that blows through your body's house until you beg for him to come close to warm you.
A Time Will Come
5 mintue timer
January 15, 2025
The slip of silk and the kick of thunder into the plain of exestintal minds that force open the door closed and the night that falls down into black coffee cups. The world goes on. Regardless. It will see the dawn. It will happen even if all you have inside your box is uncertinty. Wolves will always lay down with sheep until they awake inside jawbones. Crack and clack bone and hooves. There are shadows in forests that we don't see in the dark that want to either sooth or distort. We will be ok. The face of the sun turns down to warm us and it burns off the smoke in the air. We rip the cobwebs from our eyes to see just what will lay in shattered glass around us, and we will take up the craft of piecing it all back together. Nothing is broken forever. There's a fix to everything when you have the knowledge and practice the skills. The moon will hook it'self into your eye. You will be hungry. Heartbreak will happen. It's what makes knowledge and boiled down fool's gold will trick the eye. Know the difference.
A Warm Winter Day
5 minute timer
January 14, 2025
The air up there was so crystal clear and smooth it was like drinking a cup of cool water to breathe it in like it was a rational word to cash in a profit on. Open the window to have it toss the curtains like a couple of hands that wave hello. The whispers of the breeze through the plant in the far corner dancing slightly to it's own beat in it's mind. This is how you let the spirits evaporate from the walls and bring in the freshness of a mock spring day in winter. The total quiet soothes, with the occasional car in the street going about it's own business. Taste the dew off the cup of mead left out the metal of the chair still cool to your warmth it's like a miracle that you can be here. Breath all this in and know you were not left to dissolve into the walls and concrete and that everything looks new because of this rebirth. You are not joining the spirits in the walls or the bookshelf. You breathe. Taste the air and are here to enjoy winter-spring with one more mouthful of mead slipping down your throat.
Prayers At The Café
5 minute timer
January 13, 2025
The stars exploded when you walked past leaving a shower of glitter falling down coating the city streets and all the little awning of buildings. The café shook their hair dry of it. Falling like confetti to the gutter path of the rain shower water into the grate to end up traveling underground. Way underground when you really can't see anything or hear the heartbeat of car motors anymore. But you do hear the silence siren that drones low not really hear but feel the sound in your chest. You wake up from all of this. Drink your coffee and wonder if that guy would return to shake the world up again with his foot falls and smile. The sun starts to shine through the two pipes that are sticking out of the top of the building across the street, like some magical pillars that count the time with sun positions and the druids all chant low in the street below it wishing for a harvest that will help them get through the winter. The rain stopped at least. We all pray with them. Pray for coffee and just getting through the day.
Feathers Not Guns
5 minute timer (went over by a minute to finish a thought)
January 12, 2025
It was the best you could do with the shell that was given, though cracked and let the rain in and drafts around the corridors chilled you at night. You know that you made a home for yourself and though it was small and only you could fit inside, it was at least peaceful. You moved on like the arm of a clock like that. You always found it. Always moved on. Sleep can clash with your life and make you forget things, like your talk, and the words to some songs from the elders, but you move forward, always. You know the more you walk the more you will remember. Stand defiant against strong wind as a protest to those who didn't think you could make it through. Warrior woman on wings of an eagle. We never stay down. We stand tall and turn our back to the wind and face the sun. Wear our feathers proud and dance when those say we need to only walk low. Sing out our songs when we should shut up and know our place. We will never disappear, even though our brothers and sisters disappeared along highways and alone in fields, we will walk tall for them. Know that they are in our every purposeful step. Nobody will ever cut our hair again. Our feathers threaten more than a white man's gun.
Dream Currency
5 minute timer
January 11, 2025
Wild winds rushing over the black and white of your dreams like a film noir that has a broken screen. I am nothing but a picture on the wall with dust setting in the corners of the frame. Something you took years ago and it hasn't changed except me and you outside the glass time moves onward and away count your blessings that every one here is a stranger They don't pass your eye a second glance or know you're there except the rare hello passed from mouth to ear like a form of sound currency to ride on the silences. Everyone has a black umbrella to shelter their pale skin from the rain mixing the oil paint of where and black to a mute grey. No more word pocket change now to give out to you, and you leave the streets penniless and discarded from the windows of the stores until a random streetlight finds you exposed under it's hot seat light.
Fruit Juice on Film
5 minute timer
January 10, 2025
The taste of cold steel is the feel of the kiss you lean into and feel like you will die without it and the mouth that tastes of blood red passion fruit sweet juice crushed in the glass of your bedside and perfume on your neck you smell like a candle and lace flowers that weave in and out of the window in the breeze dark outside and raining you brush me with an eyelash gentle hand and the sunlight turned black until it washes itself golden in the morning, like the fruit juice you reach for and the passion fruit kiss of tropical washes of flavour mixed with lip balm tastes like a summer's childhood. No more now gone and dissolved into nostalgia I lay here next to you with nothing more than lust and an orange you bite with feverous blood thirst and I wonder where your fangs are as you come to my neck they retract and I flash mine and we are art girls in a film from long ago lost in fever gales of oil paint and wine and incense smoke curls.
The Fog Will Tell You
5 minute timer
January 9, 2025
Without leaving any forwarding address and no string of numbers that connect phone line to phone line, dissolve into the fog that rolls off the harbour and vanish. The night will do it's own thing in your absence and it will roll into morning when the fog burns off disintegrating you with it. You are a ghost and a bird that flew away up into the sky, only to fall down as rain in another land where you pick up and dry off your feathers and find a new fog to float on, off some other harbour, or lake or maybe you will fall into the sea in it's vastness. Somewhere you will find a place to lay your feet down and touch grass once more. Put an end to flight and find a nest or a house to haunt. You will know it when you find it. Love hits you when you don't search and a home will claim you when it wants you. Nothing has to be worked towards. Just flow, like fog and like a bird on a current of air high in the swirl of mist and cloud and the stars are to be rain for a new night. Neither way is correct, it's bias and you will taste lips that will tell you when you found love and home. It will be, maybe not tomorrow, or next week or a year from now. But it will be when the time is right and the air leads you there when it wants. The perfume of fog will let you know.
Nothing Is Something
5 minute timer
January 8, 2025
We were empty of mirrors when the house fell down leaving black soot everywhere, and no where to fix your hair only sky and dangerous sharp jagged wood that we would lean against when it was a wall. The night air made the ash settle like velvet pieces that disintegrated when you touched them, like memories of what was there. It's all how material things vanish when we least expect them. Nothing remains but song and air and sky and fire and water and the thoughts you have when you try to fall asleep. Time ticks on with out a shrug to what you own. At least you don't have to dust anymore and keep up with the Jones'. Nothing is freeing and enslaving in the same breath. As the cool air sets into the bones of the house with no walls, you are your own house with your own bones and walls. Walk away from here. There's nothing left to gather, and where would you put it anyway? The only thing too big to fit in pockets is memories of life before this. Before the fire, and before your break down on the street for all the neighbours to see. Nothing is something in the end of it all. You can at least have that much. Take it to the bank and vault it up next to more nothing until all you have is gone.
Reading by street lights
5 minute timer
January 7, 2025
Crystallized skin on the lawns of the next door flower bead you see it in the starlight from at least 50 yards away the glint and prism colour wheel effect against buildings and skylines all empty of the moon and the moon beam milk poured out of the jars of rock and spheres roll on past the squares to land in the back of the city where the garbage is. This is where it grows and festers and feeds off everyone nothing left to do but protect the squares and hope to survive. Opened up the fridge and the squares fall to the floor melting into pools of nothing but wet transparency the cats and dogs finish them off and feel the cool against the heat of the fire above the house which scalds the landscape like a nuclear bomb falling happily in little dust over every inch of this happy town. Dance for the freedom and dance for the end of all wars because it's the end of the end. Spheres abandon garbage dumps and squares become cubes to stand ground. I read by the street lights that are still giving off light in a black out society.
July and February
5 minute timer
January 6, 2025
The world didn't end with jazz but a crash and settled down on the Sunday morning when we sat in the park that had glass on the grass and had coffee looking over the harbour from the top of the hill and we would talk about what would happen if you had string to tie up the lamp posts into a pile and fire them off in that cannon. I talked about how birds were like little black periods in between your language and would probably nest there until they had to fly south. Everyone leaves in winter it seems. Traveling on the backs of birds and return like winter never happened. But why? When you miss the crisp mornings like that? When the sun shines through snow and sweet scented ice sets in your hair. You can still enjoy parks, and conversations like this when you sit with me and we watch the cars whiz below on the streets like metal beetles busing themselves with life. It's like time zipping past but our time rests here. Warm next to you and the coffee cup warmth in hand. Who needs summer to feel like this? I am warm at your side as if you were August and I was February melting into you cooling your heat thirst.
Sunlight Lies
5 minute timer
January 5, 2025
I lack understanding of the sun as it is so cold that my skeleton feels like it will shatter like ice inside my skin. I know you are cold as well. I do my best to warm your hands. The sun is a liar on these days when the wind blows and you shiver and pray for the summer when you wish for the cold. I hold no truth in sunlight and the bright light it shines down over frosted windows that we wait in for the greyhound to pull up. I kissed you to keep my lips warm, and I saw that frost settled in to your eyes making them crack, and I walked away to the bus to take me out of here. Away from you and this cold. And I swore I would never return again, but I do in my mind. The cold day, and how ice melted a bit outside of your shadow, and how I would empty from my clothes in the cold again for you. I will return in physical form someday just to say hi but on a day that when the sun don't tell lies, and you are bronzed with sun like honey gloss on my lips.
Spider web life
5 minute timer
January 4th, 2025
We remain to scratch on the windows of doors like the naked tree branch. You float on like a spider web of silken drift on air, and float away. You no longer are here. Taken to the wind like a leaf that blew off in autumn wind that starts to cool the heat of summer off the earth. You are like the silent form of speech that the moon says when it speaks to the ocean water. Clinical white haze and blue pastel cool and possession over the living is lost in hands of threaded skin with yard spun from webs of the prism coloured spider who weaves what dreams make over our eyes and mouth to breath in the silence of nothing speak. Open the window that we scratch at. The streaks of fingers are tracing the dust off it leaving black marks on my tips and my nails are wearing down. I know you're not home. you'll never come home. The wind won't blow you back again. No leaf grows in your place. It's a house that has been emptied of people. The only thing that lives in it is the husk of memories that lay in dust in the top corners of ceilings that get neglected at cleaning time. You live there. In a speck that once lived there. You're human skin shed until you were just nothing but spider web and lost string off your green coat.
January 3, 2025
Media Memory
The crooked coat hanger adjusters for the antennas make for a static picture on the old TV where you can hardly make out the channel, but you watch anyway as there's nothing else on. Records play backwards and the fire goes out 19 ways to jump through the hoops of the wired for sound lighting streaks of silver radio waves to dive into coming up for air through the waves and hear in stereo but under here it's all mono low-fi and the scratch of the record's needle in the arm pours out music from yesterday. This is real media. The media of yesterday today better than yesterday and you can't find the remote control anymore. Lost somewhere deep in the back of the sofa where you dare not put your hand. The window opened to let the light in, hazing over the TV screen making it hard to see, like an almost burnt out tube, open the back and watch the wires ignite in a crackling crack on the screen glass, skipping the picture into two of us and we make for the perfect sitcom remember to leave something to the imagination for the next episode to keep them all guessing who done it and why.
January 2, 2025
Rotate The Right Way
The resetting of the stop watch constantly at the same time, this world clicks on it's clockwork grooves and snaps into place from time to time. It's always spinning no matter what. You can count on that. It's the waking eyes of time changing winter to spring, summer to fall, wolves to hunt, and squirrels to gather. It's the great mother of us all and the reaper when it runs our times up and we return inside the womb soil and become food to nourish it again. We melt like water, but storm like thunder. We are only human after all in all our flaws and aches standing on the edge of earth mother calling us back into her comfort and eyes that open to the new dawn when she wakes us to send us off to school and we open up the womb and crawl inside to be born anew each sun rise we stretch upward like plants do. What was the blinking bomb that ignited over there? Did you hear it? Or was it a heart exploding with love? We remember the times when life would rotate with the earth instead of fighting against it like so many seem to do now. Come back to earth. The natural. There's no wires here to control you, nothing that will feed data from your veins like blood. It's quiet. You can think for yourself once and for all. Dare to move against the grain as it's the way the earth turns. It wants no part of this, so why do we?
January 1, 2024
5 minute timer
The Employment of Ice
Leak through the cracks like melted ice off the side of shoes that storm past the gasoline streets during evening rush hour and clocks all ticking faster and faster, move through it, into the cracks and see how many backs you can save from sealing it up with your own very back. Press hard now, and make sure there's not holes. Mothers are counting on you. Beside the moon a star turns on it's switch and the whole sky lights around it, illuminating your little glint in the concrete. Doing your thing. Protecting cracks so the steps of feet don't fall in and snap back bones and it's always a job that goes unnoticed and under appreciated. No body fills these cracks. You can ask all day at public meetings until your voice is raw and it never gets done. Then the ice soothes the raw throat that then slips down the throat and into the cracks in your soul filling it up. Little folks walk unaware of you, and too busy to care you're under their feet holding up the world for everyone to make it home safely until the sun comes up to melt you in the morning, and you sleep until your evening shift begins again.
Go back to the top of the page.
December 2024
Stream of consciousness writing
December 31, 2024
5 minute timer
Year of Peace
Mirror of the lake shows back the sky, and the world seems flipped - so clear and calm. This is what the new year should be. To be the calm lake in the midst of the chaos of bat winged skeletal animals that flock around towers of power with shriek for the flesh of corpses.No this isn't it. This is not a way. Flash of light from minds that grew fat with money so much that the heart attack of brain will lead them to madness from greed. Nothing here but green. Trees, mirror lakes, and second sky within the flow until it trickles through rocks causing ripples. Escape for a little while with the water through stones, carry yourself through to the stream and find the ocean where you can sleep in a bed of depth and soundless. Beautiful blues and greens above floating like dreams that purify. Marbles for our eyes and shells for our hair. Sea the new oxygen for the coming year of resetting the self. Curl up into the grass to dry off and watch the space of sky and float upward
December 30, 2024
5 minute timer (about 5 seconds over to finish sentence)
Word Flow
Mixed up and jumbled up and rise up with the word's sounds in between the rustling of paper, then the strip from the spine spiral coils like a spinal tap tapping of pen. You can't lay here empty and void. I'm looking at you to fix the dead white with blue flat lines across your surface. I then find you coming through my pen like drunk's beer getting knocked over pouring out of the ink like some strange mix of black and brew blue hues forming shapes of letters and then somehow you're finished and cohesive and comprehensible sometimes without tweaks and judgment just flow free and let your spirit ride one off the page tonight and out the open window to disappear somewhere deep in the thick fog over the harbour and only slightly spotlighted on your departure by the lights of the coast guard's boat I can't see where you go. Somewhere you go forward knowing your own journeys, that is no business of mine. I just hope you end up in some part of the world where you cuddle up to someone tonight and tell them something they have been looking to hear. That's the magic of the creative flow and words that pour from pens.
December 29, 2024
5 minute timer
Television Snow Day
The poetic attack on the mayor was just a distraction from the real news when you turn one way and avoid the next the news at 10 repeats over and over like a skipping record until the whole broadcasts distorts to static snow falling chaotically over the further fields under the glowing TV screen as your only light seeing the snow blowing sideways as the wind takes it out of the house to the streets where it belongs. This isn't the premium subscription you paid for. You see it in another direction than sideways, you see it for the spirals that venture out of the streets and into the sky, and up it goes now. Watch. It blows the moon out like a blown TV tube until it shrinks into a tiny glowing dot until the back screen eats it with one chomp. You open the door to the TV room. The sunlight pouring in like a spilled picture of ice water all over you, all lemonade yellow and orange juice piss. You squint at the brightness as you walk into it, mistaking the sun for a television tube that set aglow again.
December 28, 2024
5 mintue timer
Muse Memoriam
This is how the day started, with dashes of water colours over the sky and the cat at the window taking it all in. Coffee warm waking and a yawn escapes still. The day closing with a different water colour pallet over the sky and the cat retired from the window long time ago to curl under blankets away from the winter days. Warm winter is a strange thing, like a phantom of spring that wisps by. I am at my own side and that is where I should be. Moving on through the night, enjoying wine and music and conversation. This is living. Slow and simple. Calm lake mirroring sky in my mind. Peace. Wine finishes and the bed is a welcome to curl and read and listen to music until dawn comes with it's painting anew. I think on you. And how you are close to me than air, and how you are more soothing in my ear than ambient music, you are anywhere and everywhere. I carry you in my heart everywhere. This is raw and sacred, and it's a locket that don't tarnish. I think of you and smile like glass blown into an ornate vase filled with love and loss and joy and melancholy, and it's all worth it. To experience such a muse that whispers in my ear like a ghost during automatic writing. I miss you and feel your spider web ghost touch against my cheek.
December 27, 2024
5 minute timer (stopped 10 seconds left)
The Promise
Awaken to the flush of sunlight on your face, this is what the day promises you - light and time anew. You can't ask for anything more than that. The rest is all extras that just happen. Pouring the coffee black as the night that is fading away to more of a lighter blue and the dots of birds that fly up into the sky. Did the moment stand still without notice? How to be fixated in one spot watching birds out of the kitchen window as you sip coffee as if we have all the time in the world. Well, we do, but not now. Work pushes us out the door like an irritated mother shoving kids along to get to school on time. We should never forget the in this work day and hustles that as stressed as it can be, at least there's still birds in the sky. The day can at least promise us that. The light, and birds are there, as sure as there's a ground under our feet. The night comes back again, pulling a dark screen over everything. Settles us in for the promise of light and birds the following day.
December 26, 2024
5 mintue timer.
Rocket to Nirvana
Start the rocket and shoot far up into the wool sky blanket and rip through, sending star dust blood down to sprinkle around the earth, settling in every lung and building cracks. This is the original air to breathe, without restraint to its silvery oxygen, that lifts you up further each day past the murders of crows and the clouds. I can pull you up here high as the rocket can go, fleeing into the crushed velvet of sky and glittering violet and golds. Brush your hair back, pin it up with a moon's hook through the eye of a needle and press deep into the skin that was earth's balloon that spins without notion of where we are. It can't find us up here. We're too high up. It can't call us back. We won't go back to the buzzing, spinning electrical noise below. Deep silence and holding our hands for stability, leap further outside the universe we know, to somewhere else we can't imagine. We are never turning back. Opening up the door to the blinding light of the edge of all creation to feel the glow of god like energy of the nothingness of peace.
December 25th, 2024
5 mintue timer (finished 10 seconds early)
Clawing Upward
When the sermon is done and has spilled out finally through cracked lips and sweat, the restless fever blinds, and you can't catch your breath until you are a lost researcher trying to find the answers to something you know nothing about. It's an ache to calm that never calms, only becomes a slow drumming beat inside your head until you think you are going deaf. It's always there, just behind the concrete bone of cracked openings where the knowledge has seeped out like matter. You can't mend it or put it back. You claw up the cliff but fall further down with every loose pebble. Drawn out cancellation of the emptiness of soul reservoir which has been begging for rain for a long time, cracked and dry dust blows away from you, never able to collect the pieces of fine powder to build it up whole again. This is what the dark brings when you're looking for light, and this is what the light brings when you're so blind you beg for some darkness. Never quenched. Never satisfied.
December 24, 2024
5 minute timer
Water Flows Under Closed Doors
Silently sweet rituals that remember the bitterness of grief over the sea's deprived sand. You and I walked along here a decade ago wondering if the numbers on the doors would equal to the combination that opens the lock with clicks that echo over the night empty streets. They didn't, but we liked to think they would. I leaped over the rocks and plunged into the grass that was brown and dull with lack of water, even though the ocean was just a foot's step away from it. The tree above, sucking up all the sun and rain. Nothing left for it to borrow from old roots. The wind blew through the grass, sounding like a thousand hushed whispers in a language you could not understand. We felt so foreign and stupid to their voices. That's nothing that mattered as we laughed it away nervously, knowing those doors will stay closed, and we had to do something else. Dreams only exist riding on the backs of birds that scattered over city skyscrapers, picking through the trash for nourishment. We craved thirst but lost the water.
December 23, 2024
5 mintue timer (stopped 10 seconds left)
The Mind of the Afternoon
Robotic wedding of corpses in the hills where the banks throw coins in the river and retirement of the coffee cups in the sink lots of noise buzzing out of the light sockets in plastic machinery that smells of burnt wires. Take back the poly and the cotton gauze off the wounded afternoon of empty cupboards that creak open over the counter and blocks the light from the windows. Nothing amounts to something when you look over to the bookshelf that has no pages and void of words, they spilled over the sides through the door space between the wood and into the floor boards that were neglected to polish in 50 years. Cats yawn with dogs and curl up in the yews Silence then when they sleep until the crows start to fly out of the sky cracks and wake up the taxidermy moose head over the mantle and all the world starts buzzing at once like live electrical wires jumping to life after cut down. You check your watch. See it's past the sun dial and turn to me with a smile. You know what I'm thinking, don't you?
December 22, 2024
5 mintues (stopped at 6 seconds)
Street Light Auras
We move and erase the sky that dipped into the skyline when the buildings stand like giants in the distance over the hill. Their blinking eyes flipping on and off with many eyelids that move in separation of each other. Mouth of the harbour agape filled with water that throws up over the rock bones on the side. Birds picking at the creatures in between and under. We empty into the street light aura, full of liquor and music talking in poetry found on bathroom stalls the pipes that filter through the building bringing secrets to the sewer where you hear them laugh and scream all night too much too soon. Lots of ways out of the city sewers if you are determined. We were there, we escaped and so can they who scream into the late hours. Fun never lasts, and soon you get smacked awake, however there is calm like sitting here with you under this city night sky studded with stars and the wilderness of buildings stretching up tall with pride. They made it out and so did we. We just had to stretch far enough. No more bowing and crumbling at foundations. No more splashing into cars that hit us into asphalt afterlives.
December 21, 2024
5 minute timer (stopped 15 seconds early)
Ocean Walk As the Lilacs Die
The way he moves up the steps passing by the dying lilacs that shake their perfume in one last gasp, scents the kiss he gives me that shakes the birds from their slumber in the tree tops as I mistake the moon for his eyes. The ocean threw back its hair in a flirtatious toss as he walked past it. I know it beckons to him to sleep in its arms like all women do. I wrap my arms around him like the ocean would wrap over him and pull him into it's bed, the glint of seashells crackles under the dock work lights. This pulls him back past the dying lilacs shallow breaths and bowed heads, as the mead in the cup by the bedside goes neglected with the glow of the street light outside the window reflected inside it, casting its reflection through to rest over his mouth.
December 20, 2024
5 minute timer (stopped 14 seconds)
The Rider
This wasn't the scene to spill over the sides of the chair and empty yourself into the storm drains. This was the place to deny the mountain's height existence and climb, knowing you will reach the top without full seeing the distance. Sometimes mind over matter works, and you cough out the gravel that slows down your body. You move faster and realize you are amazing. If only you can see how to do that, as I can see it. The nightly rain falls over you like a beautiful gloss, making you majestic, and you rise up on a silver horse and leave with a rumble down the road where you disappear out of site. You're heading for the mountains, heading for the climb. You can get there. Just one foot in front of the other. The time is now on your side, my dear. You can do it without convictions and the chains that held your feet down to the concrete. Fly on that chrome that shines in the moon and burns eyes in the sun. You are part of this road and it is going to lead you where you need to be. Nothing else matters but when you come back, hold me and tell me you won, even if you didn't. I will wrap you in my limbs, and we will sink into this mud and grass and never resurface until the next day's sunlight wakes us up from stone slumber.
December 19, 2024
5 minute timer (Stopped 4 seconds early)
The Wage of Frost
The wage weary of northern Frost sits down on the bench thinking about the time that everything in the air had the taste of sodium, and the cough-up of mining town phlem. The past was the past, and frost gets off the bench to search for the light from the store window to read the map of where to get to nowhere, and the warmth of the quota punching coal fires that settle down over the hills to the valleys, and it was there that it would warm itself until it melts, and then finds its way travelling through sidewalk cracks, to find a drain to then find a river, to meet the ocean, and travels further away from here. This dead town with coal mine lung dust that cripples with each cough. Sunsets no longer will be grey, and the time on the town clock actually moves with the sun and moon, like tides do, carrying frost far from this place. Guided by will and moon, it will never look back. It will push forward and onward to the better wage, and better warmth and clear air. This was frost's promise to itself, and a promise that it won't freeze again.
December 18, 2024
5 minute timer
Inside the Pages
Reflecting on the language of a name while fields of quotations spring up to meet the sun of the word, this is what it's like to fall inside the paper and look around at the words on it. See them tall and long, much like buildings of a busy city where comas and periods come rushing by, off to other words and emphasizing structures. Then the melody of poetry floats in the air like a gentle breeze that blankets around the white floor with blue ley lines that create structure, so everything don't fall and collapse on itself. Masters of poetry peer down from the sky like gods and goddesses giving birth to more stanzas and I see it all and yet not fully aware of the meaning of the word sculptures until I look closer and see most reflect me and the world around me. Here inside these pages, I can't even comprehend the larger area of a book outside all this. This is the world. This poem and these lines of blue streets and the punctuation busing themselves to keep everything in order like little cops. This is the passion of writing and the writer's dreams when they dream in words, giving breath to concepts dripped in ink.
December 17, 2024
5 mintue timer.
Moon Dials and Sun Clocks
Past the orange house now brown you are there at the gate with the bowl in hand and coffee cup talking about moon dials and the sun clock that has struck you down, and you told me about the time the clay came out of the earth to move into the back of the yard and resides there now. You are part of this clay. It holds your heart in it's hands like an honoured gift. You know it will never leave, and it makes your heart eternal that way. So crazy, but yet I listen and know that there's a song or poem in all of this and take mental notes of your visions and revision of your lives you lead in the past. It's starting to turn dark now. The coffee is almost done, and now recedes back into a small drop at the bottom of the cup, reminding us that everything drains out in life. The coffee and life. We are not here for long so take the pace of the sun by the way of the clocks and the watch on my arm is just human time not celestial, and I pick up your crystal and hand it back and say I feel the vibes from it, but I didn't. Your long grey hair glinting like sterling silver strands dashing to and fro on the wind. You are the hippie that reflects the shore of the harbour and I turn to go wishing you well.
December 16, 2024
5 mintue timer (I went a couple seconds over to finish my last sentence)
The Crows and the Phoenix
Cream dreams make coffee for guards on duty and empty visions ripped out of the eyes of the Phoenix before it turns to ash becomes yours, and you then set the blaze and renew the ashes to dance with sparks of life. Opened up boxes of blonde golden hairs wrapped around a heart still beating. Eating nothing but air and light, and at least 50 people remember how it used to be when that heart was inside a person who was so fiercely strong that legends would be created in the stones of villages long past. Where did you go? You were here. I have memories of it. I remember when you passed by me at the café and smiled, and we ended up sitting in a park together talking about life and how this sky is your fire that birthed you. The crows scattered on the power lines like dots over Rue St-Denis, and we knew that you had tips on how to get them to give you little shiny things. They knew your face, the crows, like I remembered you. Icy blue eyes that made every woman in Montréal forget her name, and you then shattered into a thousand feathers like a phenom phoenix who splashed down into a mirror of self ashes waiting for another spark.
December 15
5 minute timer
Night Fields
The moons hook embedded in the eye of earth when the grass swoosh back and forth fanning the sky and dusting the stars to one side. We slice through the tall grass, sway too and fro from the edges of the field where we think we could jump off the side into nothingness and the void of stars that live under the earth. No one sees those, but they're there. We can smell them like glittering icicles that twinkle and tink all night if you listen hard enough with your ear to the soil. The little shuffling of worms keep them dusted and shinny. We would eat of the apple from the trees that gave the taste of bitterness like licking stones and river water that cuts through this landscape like a transition dream that moves you forward deeper into the nighttime when all the world sleeps or works hard under factory machines that grind and whine we are here. Clear air filling our lungs and hands that will give breath to a new day in just a few hours. The sun opens its lazy eye, and we go home to sleep well into the afternoon, then crinkle back the sheets like tinfoil and I brew us a coffee dark as last night's sky.
December 14, 2024
5 minute timer
Kool-aid Dreams
kool-aid flavoured summer time liquor ice dreams moving through the mist and into nostalgic music and smells of coppertone and popsicles. We had fun didn't we? Splashing in the apartment water faucet puddles and chasing around the rocks of the lawn's carpet of green sweet scented herbal grass, moving faster and throwing higher than ever before. Who knew this would be something that didn't last forever those summers? That childhood? That fun? Where can it be now? Everything moves so quickly in the flash of a stream hit by lightening it's gone. People are gone and times are gone and at the time, you thought it would last forever. It can seem like a far away yesterday when you think on it. Hard to believe we've been there, compared to where we are here. Nothing can bring it back sadly. I would give a breath and a kiss to have one more splash in that puddle with you or the scent of wet cardboard stores and that roll down the drive way of swamp land memories where the cat tails grew far taller than me and were such magical things, thinking they grew into the tails on cats. We wish for yesterdays so much. Simple and carefree.
December 13, 2024
5 minute timer set but stopped writing with 21 seconds left.
Thank You
All through the glass was a smash-through splatter of beginnings and endings of bullet days of last year and this year and the future filters through the cracks. Laughing is here in this cage, and you can't open it until then. A gift for your darker times, and when the dark times come, flick up the light switch to on, to watch it scatter away like cockroaches at the sight of light scattering into the cracks in floor boards and walls. We dusted the shelves and wrote our names in snow with moonlight piss and switchblade symphonies, when the dawn came we cuddled together on the sofa and watched claymation dreamscapes and landscapes of cardboard houses that melt in the rain. You are the best to chill out with when those roads are wet and slippery, and it's too dangerous to go home. I sleep here curled up like a cat next to you and touch your heart with an invisible hand to say thank you for this bed, and company, and clay pots still gather dust under the moon's smoke and coughing fits as it inhales the stars.
December 12, 2024
5 mintue timer
The Dance
Pull back the sun veil and see where the wind went. It was here and now gone to give way to the rest of the day when the rain drifted onward away from here. Maybe in the direction of you where you sit watching the birds act erratic because of the on coming wind. They scurry to busy themselves with worms and sprinkle down over the telephone wires that crisscross the city. All the old men watch eastward as the sun starts to set, and they taste the air is going to be filled with rainstorms in the midst. Better to rush home from this coffee to slip into the door quickly before it comes. It knows your movements and where to hit you with its blast of cold. It is relentless with trying to tear down the leaves in the branches as they clash against the darkening sky, waving on thunder strips and shake with a swaying witchcrafty dance under the closing eyes of sunlight to the opening eyes of the moon. There is nothing left to drain off in the street gutters. The rain washed the dust clean down the drain to the sewers, where it's the rats that have to sweep well into the night.
December 11, 2024
5 minute timer
Snow Falling Asleep
That sort of snow falling, blanketing the streets in silence and glowing street lights. The way it turns everything into a picture that could be framed is a talented painter's hand brushing over the little corners of everything here. White snow against black sky. The mouth of the harbour swallowing most of it. The glitter of flecks of ice on the windows makes magic to the cozy insides of the eyes, where we rest with drinks in hand. This is the holidays on show. Parading like a beautiful postcard sent from some distant relative that only sends postcards and little else. Not a word from them the rest of the year. Moon keeps time over the city and illuminates the spot where the animals go to curl inside trees and little burrows until the thaw. Their eyes close, little pieces of fuzzy felt and sleep until spring says "wake little ones." They then put out their little story book fire places, and go outside to greet the sun and thawing world with sleepy eyes and new beginnings start there.
December 10, 2024
5 minute timer
The City's Final Phone Booth
Hang up the receiver instead of hanging on, the cord crossed over itself leaving a twisted tangled line, lines that are like ley lines that move city to city, through dead air and dead space tossing wet leaves down to the violent ground around the place where you are at the monument, and I am at the shore where nothing but space remains and the deep impenetrable dark fog around us all. There's nothing left to talk about and nothing left to speak to the phone about when it's all been said soul to soul and that crossed lines distort the speaking like we were robotic and talking in monotone tales. This phone line was dead long ago. Someone stole the box containing all the quarters out of the bottom, leaving a hole where the change went. Is that where you reside? The hide and the found there underneath the old phone booth telephone where the line was cut long ago? Nobody speaks inside there. The booth is mute.
December 9, 2024
5 minutes
Under The Tree
It came that way the way you were going to go to move backwards from in the dark of the night you synthesize the music around the grass that brushed it's green against the night backdrop of the park and the coffee was warm and comforting, and it provided that bit of protection against the chill we always said that we would meet here below the roots of this tree where we burrow like animal children into the ground until we reached the core of the earth's apple. Spit out the seeds and hope they plant anew, growing as tall as the sky's dome above us. Birds would nest like little play dough type creatures snuggled into it's branches here in this night-park where everything is still except for the laughter of two men sharing a beer in the distance and the hum from the downtown shoppers that the world seems to be a kaleidoscope of lives churning in and around each other in their own space and pace. We leave the tree, and the seeds, and move back towards the harbour where the boats dock like wooden horses coming into a stable waiting for a drink.
December 08, 2024
5 minute timer
Writing prompt: Footprints
The Crow Child
The rain pooled inside of footprints, and cars screeched to a halt outside a window where the footprints have vanished, and there was no search effort to the tracks leading out into nothing that melted when the rain reclaimed the snow turning to flat ice that glinted under the full moon's bright face. 20 years and they never found you. As if you evaporated when the spring came, leaving no bones in the ground, and no more essence of you on earth. I bet you flew away like a crow. High up into the night sky and now live behind the glittering of stars that you turn out the lights to when you go to bed. You have this new life up there. You go to work and return home with just as little pay as you did down here. Still working yourself to the bone, but happy for what little you have. You never cared for material things when you were a crow person, who soared high and left this earth behind. I know that the Creator built you a nest. I saw the twigs you sneak on my back steps sometimes. Hear your caw, but never see you. You're not early like that anymore for human sight.
December 7, 2024
5 minute timer with a word prompt of land and sea, though I went a bit over 5 minutes to finish the final sentence.)
(Untitled)
He knew how to snap lead that lived in his heart until it got so cold that it would crack open and expose the water inside that rushed deep and full like the sea that lived within, and all the fish that lived in his sea-heart that would shimmer like little gold flecks when the sun hit it. He wasn't what he thought he was. He thought he would thrive where he was, and he did - for a time. When the sun hid inside a blanket of black velvet, and the moon would illuminate the gold sea heart fish, he would look away from his house and wonder what was inside the forest beyond. It was dark and he knew she was wild. Choose the safety of the sea, or the wild of the forest. She was cold as he, but she had depths that ran dark like roots that burrowed to the core of the earth. There she was warm, and he knew if he broke past the dark and the snow she would unravel for him her vines and branches and welcome him into her warm dark depths. But he played it safe and didn't stray. He instead dreamed of the dark wolf fur of her, and the wilds of her heart, and she dreamt how he could water her roots to make her grow strong.
December 6, 2024
5 minute timer
You and I
15 and then 20 and then 100 you come here and you move to the beat and you move me and you and I sway and dive into the airwaves of sound and you and I break down the barriers and you and I bridge distance and you and I touch with such a force the world shakes and breaks in two you and I never broke down and you and I never back down and you and I never backwards only forwards and you and I move to this song and sound moves you and I closer and closer still when the music has stopped and you and I move away from the speakers and deeper movements back down the stairs to the streets and you and I slip between sheets music moves you and I closer and closer until we are both just and I and I and You and You all encompassing like the universe of sound and back beats beating hearts faster as we are I and You and Me and We and one by one we are one on one and this song is playing just for us and we made this song that brings us to one I and one You and eyes connecting to I and you and me and we and night waves of music in the air between sheets and music notes ring up tempos and we sleep in silence of sound you and I
December 5, 2024
5 mintues (stopped 10 seconds left)
Telling Time
Many times after time and time after that time and time immemorial we concentrated on our watches, and clocks, the analog flipping of numbers, moving us forwards not back, and we know that every time we see a clock it reads 11:11 no matter the am or pm of time moving backwards and forwards and there's a shift everywhere in time keeping time to the tune of the ticking and chimes and bells and vibrations of time that stopped the timer of the moment the sand that empties out of its vessel keeps ancient time before AD, and it all started with the big bang the beginning of time before it had numbers. The time it had numbers was because we invented the numbers to count time, before numbers what was time? Just a ticking in the universe? Just a sun passing by in the sky? The sundial howls at the moon dial and tells us that time is running out and in keeping time is held in our hands in glass windows we put on our wrists and pockets. Our way to holding onto time.
December 4, 2024
5 minute timer (stopped writing with 14 seconds left)
The Glass
A snowflake slides off the hook of the moon to land in my glass on this December evening watching the people below in the streets move up and down as on a film made as stock footage of a busy city street scene we are part of it all, the film moving forward in life and dreams like an old VHS tape with dust in between the strips. I finish the last bit of wine in the glass and hear it tink on the window sill like a muted bell that hasn't chimed for a long time in an old church that is left dusty and barren. Forgotten on some old land somewhere. Where did those people go? Who remembers that land? It is as if the earth swallowed them up and there was nothing left but this church on a hill, that phantomly rings it's bell sounding like the wine glass on my window sill that had a drip of snow melt into its redness. Christ's blood, the bell and the silence of lost lands in this busy city street below the window where the cold air blows in like drifts of a loud lullaby. It's almost time to sleep and dream of all of this in distorted ways, like old films that got mashed up with another until it's a resemblance of what it was in the beginning, all playing through a window sill like honey hued sepia.
December 3, 2024
5 minute timer
Old Records
dusty scent of old record cardboard and vinyl and I transport into a after feild of memorywhen I put the needle on you and let is ride your groves and into the dips for the sound of nostalgic dreaming fast and slow and like a curling of smoke caught in sunlight drifting back this is the power of music and the power of you to remind me of these times. Old records never die Ian says and I believe him. I know some day I'll play this song and cry and know that later I'll have another memory to this song. You live in this record sleeve, and will live there long after you leave. The harmony and memory ever ingrained like record groves on my mind, skipping to
one much loved spot and I fall into your arms and we dance once more to this and then make love to that, and then curl in a blanket on the floor listening to these songs and the rain keeping time outside the window above sprinkling in on us from time to time with the wave of sound and the fire crackle of needle meeting vinyl. This is time, this is sound, this is what it means to love something so much and never letting it go. I to you, and you to me, and us to music.
December 2, 2024
5 minute timer (though finished a sentence when the timer went off.)
Soul to Soul
Slow water ebbing distant flows like bellows of horns over the water from big floating mechanical whales in the distance coming into dock. Ripples trickle over the shiny rocks, who press their little faces up to the sky for answers to their lives - the hows and the whys. Wear are here to live for you to shine looking up at us. We must be like giant gods looking our gaze down. Share your stone energies with me so I can know your histories like the rain knows the tales told by clouds. Blissfully clear this mirror to mirror we look into each other and ourselves human to stone and stone to human, each of its own flesh as granite, and granite as flesh.
December 1, 2024
5 minute timer
Words and Street Lights
Reading in the dark except by street lights is the way to open up to what is under the page of the book and somewhere in between the letters is a shadow of mysterious meaning that can probably spell out the name of god. You look further into it, and go deeper into the page and try to decipher, but it's always just an eyelash length away from you. I feel that way when it comes to your lips and the motion that feels like I'm speeding down the dark snake road on my bike when the motor is in a frenzy and I try my best not to skid out on the black ice. You tough me awake from reading and I realize there's no meaning in this book, and nothing in between the words. You are too awake for me to dream with. I close you like the book, and get up to read alone back against a street light that hums a droning backdrop to the scenery within the book and me. Moths scatter like pieces of paper above tinking against this light where they too try to look inward to find themselves by going inside out of themselves and the light. 15 minutes in and they give up. Flutter way white against the black sky until the light no longer has them in a grasp. They vanish into the ink.
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November 2024
Stream of consciousness writing
November 30, 2024
5 minute timer (yet stopped writing in the final 20 seconds as I drew a blank)
Freedom
what remains to keep when the water has poured out of our hands empty and nothing left to drink will I have to turn to hunger as a distraction from the thirst and the pain of head banging guns and avalanches in the distance when you wake up and ask me what is wrong I'll say nothing and to keep you safe from the destruction I'll read you poetry and sing out prose to make you at ease and I will slip out of the room with the rope still tied to my waist like an umbilical cord tied to the window sill where I am a pet to the outside and the inside is unaware. Nothing clashes like peace and war, and nothing clashes like you and I against the backdrop of mushroom clouds that smile lifting their faces upward to the sky in hope for freedom, only to fall back down to earth in sparks that ignite white doves turning them black as ravens to make the crows envious. It's crazy that the world goes on like this. Save your eyes, I tell you, you'll need them to rest when the radiation comes raining in.
November 29, 2024
5 minutes
Waking Up
All of this is empty said the square fleeing from the scene in the purple cadillac the colour of cognac and 50 time around the block chase zooming into the backdrop of night and stars sprinklelike birthday cake decorations and all at once the world has stopped. Empty and void, and we float in nothing and static and white noise this is what silence is behind the veil and you wondered where this will take us next as you drift into the white light of eternal being nothing more than a speck into the universe's vastness and aloneness. BANG and you go back to earth in a bus ride to somewhere with a news paper in hand and you remembered some childhood that wasn't yours but you knew it well. Some body coughs and you get distracted in the newspaper line about some sort of war happening somewhere else, not here though, here is sunny and peaceful and a child sips orange juice from a cup laughing into the sun from the window and his mother looks wearily onto nothing to the window across from her. The sun showing her youthful old age and you're wondering how long this bus will take to get you to the office where you will sift through showers of papers until you hope you will not be late to supper with your
November 28, 2024
No timer set, just a few minutes of quick notes at a park
on the way home thinking on the city in the morning. However,
still uneditited flow as nomal.
The Bike Ride
fashion clashin' up and down the side walk where powder hides in businessmen's pockets with
mistress' phone numbers and work contacts, and some city worker whipes his brow from sucking out the sewer while warming their hands with a coffee. My bike flashes past all this and the road is turning my bones to asphalt as I become the road I am on. That's the magic of bikes and birth - becoming a machine. And the earth rotates like my free wheel still, even in the most fucked of times. This world is just an enfant learning to crawl. We don't know what we are, but we know we have breath, and have this crisp sunny morning moving through this city's veins where we are both it's blood and it's heroine.
November 27, 2024
5 minutes
Mother Nature's Birth
melting fire between cracks in concrete and the ice that sooths over it
makes no music to the pipers that spout the music wine and life from reeds
and the grass waves to you to come lay down and take it all in under this
empty night sky with far distant sprinkles of stars that explode upon eye touch
and the scent of wet ozone fills your mouth as you know that this is what breath is,
this is what life is, this is what you live for over and over, to touch earth with gentle feet
and know that you are part of the soil and one day you will be in it, and sink into the core of
this earth's womb and be cradled there until the time you are reborn under the blue moon
and shake loose bohemian clicking bracelets and bells on your feet. You are part of the rope that
will pull in a new world of breath and life and you know you will decend then
when the earth touches sky and the dress comes off and you are naked with roots entwining.
You are mother earth and you will sing with those pipers when God has died and you will
claim what man has destroyed making it new again and whole again. Mother nature has come and
nature weilds her sword ruthlessly gentle and soft.
November 26,2024
5 minute timer
The Book
I would run down the pathway feeling the rocks under my feet through the thin shoe soles and I would run to burry myself into your pages deep, musty and water damaged sometimes old and dusty I loved your words so much and how they would comfort me in times of hardship and strife and I knew when I got older I would speak my own words into your spine and speak my story of life and experiences inside the pale white flesh of old attic books and yards of poetry strewn all over the lawn and set alight with the fire of someone reading it all in the corner of libraries and old book stores where you would find me there fallen open on the floor in the corner and you would pick me up and say "I know how this feels" and hold me in your hands as I held cohen and plath and Lau and called on them daily to see how they were and how I was through them. You will find yourself within my words and pages some day and I can tell you I know how you feel, and we can run through this book store together, all the way down the street to your apartment where we will talk all night over coffee until its time for bed and you dream of me and my words.
November 25th, 2024
5 minute timer
Silent Sight
On the afternoon when the sun shone gold liquid down around everyone, the parade came by
to a wold of people with deaf ears, and those with hearing had no sight, no body was enjoying it
the parade passed by them without a thought to the spectators, nothing really moved past them again
it was grey most days and the silence then made everyone equally deaf, and the grey clouds came down to rest
on their faces to make everyone blind. This was their punishment for living in their own bubbles caring only for themselves without helping other to see and others to hear. They locked inside themselves and bodies went untouched and unkissed. Grass grew over them. Nature took back what was its. Grass covered mouths and eyes and soon soil moved over them as they were rooted to the spot ensnarled by grass and roots. The world carried on above them as they laid there at the core of the earth. Silent and sightless. It will be that way for millions of years until some body digs deep in the core to uncover bones and wonder what they were all about. Their silent deaf bones that will tell no story other than some humans died here and probably because of their own destruction.
November 24, 2024
5 minute timer
The Dare
When the waves move me here, and your whisper is wraped up in my hair tossled at the wind's salt hand,
I remembered that I can be an empty vessle, to be filled up with this sand to tell time with the draining of grains, and your hand brushed the mud out of my eyes when I looked up at the sky and saw that you were there, and life was wonderful then, when you were near I could hear what speeches were inside the ocean,
and all the little creatures sleeping inside of coral cooing in their dreams. You shake me from reality, and I "
Thank you for that. Now with drifts and drift wood pushed you onward, and I went East, I lost that dreamscape
embrace from your essence, and know that this was the dream I had to wake from.
You are a mirror for eternity to gaze at itself in. You are breath, and air, and the dare I want to take.
November 23, 2024
5 minutes
I Know Who You Are
What of blood that lays on your arm as heavy as the heart of a bird that dove cooed into your
window heart of lead and warmed itself there, when the sky kissed the surface of your body
that afternoon in the backdrop of grey rock and granite was your cage. You sung hard and loud
for the gift of voice had come to you when you rinsed your hands clean of bird heart blood from
your arm and the mechanical dove sound recordings echoing from it's throat upon last breath.
You kill with a smile like a riffle so hard in your hand, when tears and blood meant nothing then,
and you forced yourself into the heavy air humid with echoing bullet-smiles. None were as strong
and deadly as yours. What woman passed by you and survived? Once flash of blue steel pistol eyes,
and crack of a smile shot leaves her breathless as the dead in the ground. Your white body against my
olive Metis body bronze by culture, and yours bronzed by sun. I layed with you Killer. I knew you
by name, and knew one day I would run free and break your chains. Leaving them empty on the ground
in the shape of circle where I was chained to your back.
November 22, 2024
5 minutes
The Rain and You
You fell with the rain that night when the grass felt like glass and smooth cool touch of grass rain fell around you falling to earth like wind rustling down alley ways and shaking the street lights awake. Always on time no matter what came by nothing of the sort when the tress shuffle down the street under the moon that wakes and bakes with the sun behind it invisable to us and to you with your smile in your eyes that light the moon and all my lights in the house go out and you climb back up the drain and fall down with the rain when you speak in hyrogliphics and hydrolics move with the sideways rain in this wind that is always on time in the mainline of the underground pipelines that sink further into the earth that is wet with rain and wet from you and everything grows there deep in the earth womb of soil and glass-grass under our feet. Silently little creatures curl into balls and sleep in the trees that rustle and bustle with the film of silver gloss wet with rain and you and your kiss tastes like the ozone and rain wet drowning in you and me and around us under this moon that blinks it's eyes twice for help from the sun.
November 21, 2024
5 minute timer set
Moon Shells
There was that kind of sound that was heard in your sleep like when the lofty trees are like paint brushes against the sky, that rustling of oxygene and the cider crisp air danced through them, rustling them like I love the feel of my fingers in your hair, and how you sigh into my kiss like rustling trees. you are organic in your love and programic ivy streams off the sides of buildings to reach out to try to touch you as you pass them. They lay against building like shy school girls and hold fast to the walls as if they were soldiers holding onto guns for their lives. Ocean receeds and bends the surf rocks these stones and shells that look like cracked little moons on the sand speckled too and fro. There's an echo from somewhere tonight. It reminded me of the echo of the sea eyes you have. The way they flutter down lashes fringe into pale pink trace of white shell eyes
The Man From the Earth's core
November 20, 2024
5 minute timer
When they would dig deeper down into the shell of the earth they found no peral but found a man who would speak backwards riddles to them. They studied him far too long that it tormented the man. He longed to go back into the core again and not be bothered. They never let him. After study they discarded him in the back of the building like a dead rat. He wandered the streets, slept in shelters and would claw at the concrete streets until his fingers were raw. All he wanted was to go back home, down into the core, where it was warm and quiet. Free of people.
Everyone passing him figured him a madman. Scoffed at his backwards speaches, and the children ran from him out of fearsome curiousity. It was dangerous too for him, as he had no one to turn to. Shelters were only temporary care. No one could call him father or brother. He was born into himself deep in the core of the earth. He was the reason for gods to blink and bow, and philosophers ponder his riddles of the aptmosphere. He was once the only ehterial being of words and sound.
Stream of consciousness writing
Born to Run
November 19, 2024
5 minute timer set
She said that she would go when the time was right. She didn't listen to him and ran as far as she could go. The sky moved like a seperate screen above her, like she remembered in an old wind up cartoon tv she had as a child, that played the winding loop of characters and song. She remembered he was like her song, but she didn't sing along. It was too much so early, and it scared her like hell. She didn't want to be the lassoed horse tied to the fence, made to walk on a string connected to the finger of someone. She was always one with the wind. But sometimes the wind would blow over barren fields a lonely sigh. Out of breath she stopped running. Fell to her knees and sobbed. She always ran. She was born to run fast through concrete to grass to water and sky.
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