Adamantly Flawed

Up the mountain in an old pickup
20 years ago, I lay in the wet of snow
And left my angel there
To melt over an untended garden,

My years were cast before swine:
One hand clutching forbidden fruit
I trod into desert, despaired
Over a path that was now lost,
When the weight of the watcher lifted
I wept unburdened

For having fallen into sunset
Over lawns, no angel to leave there
Disemboweled by disgust,
And all my days numbered

Thanks For Giving

My ma sets aside a plate of fat trimmed from the turkey.

I sez, “Look! A mountain of deliciousness!” And the fat thus quivered gelatinously.

My ma sez, “Don’t do it.”

I sez, “Alarck! Where did it all go? The plate is empty quite suddenly!”

My ma sez, “…”

My brother sez, “Charlie… that is so disgusting.”

And the fat thus quivered within me.

* * *

My goddamn heart hurts.


Saw my friends as streaks on paper. W effected a bright yellow highlight flecked with spots of magenta, evidently evidencing a carefree nature. S muddied in earth tones, brown and greens, an inherent predilection for stability. A, I could not understand nor determine a probable length, he ran a simple black, marred by moments of intense silver, a crayon ground into paper. It intrigued me, that silver could be so marring. And my own, a short gray made of ash and chalk, pocked by dimples where others had crossed.

In this dream, I hailed from Trafalmadore with a message of inclusion to the Galactic Union. I was dying, the instruments announced only a dozen more years before total decompression. My orders by Supreme Edict did not allow me to directly alter the natural course of this fledgling civilization; in these remaining years, I could only nudge events along through certain individuals. I wondered then if A was one such person. But I saw them all as mere streaks of color. Sought a pattern but none appeared.

When I woke, my head reeled in uncertainty, if self-delusion and self-awareness were so inseparable.

Purely Pyrrhic

He lived, end of story, which may have been the intent all along. But had he not, nobody could say that they would have been greatly surprised.

* * *

Busier on the south side, it allowed for possibility. The specter of growth.

* * *

This is a parting note, one of an impossible sensation that consciousness had severed from head and now floated three feet above me, tethered to a string around the neck.

* * *

Note: writing exercises.

Orbital Strung

Living here I am reminded of those days
spent deciphering the silk spun crawl of moon towards
an uncentered sky, as if the totality of life hinged
on waking or waiting for the sun to outweigh the night,

Which it never does, after all, what is impermanence,
it is the second skin of wet that makes
a rock a stone, the layer of absence that makes
a whole a hole, these things are one and the same

Given time or too much longing, even when night
despairs and rattles with furious splendor, unbalanced
perhaps dangerous, the second skin can be peeled
away and the earth returned to circle a star again,

Yet here we are, alive, barely risen up
from the bubbled sprawl for a self-centered sly;
perhaps we should hope for impermanence after all,
praying forgiveness just as mists make saints of pall.