Dance Dance Reflection

Mirror, Mirror leaned against the wall,
See inside & show outside,
What is in a face.
Deliver unto me,
What it means to mean:
I have always loved you.

Share with me your garden, Eve,
Including your fruit not forbidden,
But familiar and fleeting,
An itch in an infant;s throat,
Fresh-born and screaming,
For home.
For you.

The sky drops smiling tears,
Shuddering with anticipation of a sighting,
Of reaching out:
yearning to touch
just for one
moment or less.
Dance with me,
Circled by a shower,
Not storming,
Like adoring fans,
Leapt from their seats,
To reflect even an ounce of you.

Mirrors, Mirrors falling from starlight,
See clearly & show sincerely,
What is in her face.
Deliver unto her,
A message from me and us:
You will always be loved.

MyTV

The static fades from the screen,
"Like a short term lover,
Gathering up her things."
And I'm caught watching:
Outward-angled,
Searching for a moment to latch onto,
A mirror-memory, silver with luck.
Hoping for a chance to reflect.
The amtrack of the noxious, amorous, envious, ingenuous simulacrums screeches by,
A pause but not an interruption:
Anticipated.
The second yet to be come to life,
Born of fear;
Fear fermented from futility.
Gaseous remnants interrupt concentration constantly,
Sulfury damnation seeping skyward with every step.
Night falls; broken.
Fleeting promise fades in flight from grasp,
Leaving me alone and thirsty in a desert:
Digging for a forgotten treasure under a new moon.
My pockets empty of excuses or explanations,
I walk towards exhaustion:
A physical fail-safe for fear-of-will,
My favorite lullaby.
Caressing my worries into not carelessness,
But careless-ness.
Day comes; breaking.
Scorching the earth beneath me,
Shaking me from my dream-made ladder.
Falling from the balcony of my own room,
Through the fuzzy snow into not consciousness,
but awakeness.
The static fades from the screen,
"Like a short term lover,
Gathering up her things."

Memory-Of Shall Not Be Confused With Remembering

This receipt-driven generation of germs,
Dabble in existence,
One amoebic toe in the tidepool,
With anxious step towards the spot;
Where angle-ness is present.
The it spot.
Where the light bestows import to the forgettable.
The son of the sun dances into frame,
Singing "Meaning is gleaned from the beaming and nothing more."
Before the clouds can intercede,
The wind whispers:
"Now.'
Snap.
The frame around the scene cracks,
Damming the river to catch the silvery Pisces:
Ripped from the reel before its time.
Aired out into a carbon copy of a timeless time,
Interrupted and removed from the time - line:
See : 'Never Happened'.
Better than an original,
Memories come in plastic:
Spill-proof and shareable.
Conveniently squareable,
Derived meaning crowdsource-able,
With impressions unremarkable,
Methuselah shouts "Laughable",
For the Timeless,
Remembering is impossible.

Emotional Alchemist

Take this flame,
Snuff it out but almost,
For the fighting flame is nature's Arc de Triomphe :
A testament towards burning tenacity of the human faculty.
If you take a moment,
To stare at the shadows,
Dancing outward from the burning dead-forgotten vessel,
You can see rage-flame fading,
Dissipating vehemence with distance from the warm womb,
Transforming and contorting,
Turning tides,
Within the same breath, from fighting back the shadows,
The dedication of the human spirit flame fading,
Turning against the light-blooded allies,
This. Is. War.
A war that never changes,
battles that never end in a victor,
Only multiple losers,
Some of which have priests charlatans convincing enough to herald victory,
Albeit fading,
The high of conquest flickering,
Another tongue into the dark,
Extinguished by the natural order,
Put out by time and time again.
Grab the hot heat,
The fire from the dragon's belly that flees it's mother,
Seeking refuge in the darkness it does not know,
And give it a home.
Hold it close;
Contain the sacrament and hold it close to the holy host,
For Prometheus would roll over in his grave eternal torment,
If he came to know we had re-gifted his sacrifice.
The flame is the the light that keeps the shadows of the empty indifference,
Our whore of a Mother Nature at bay.
It is my charge,
To take this ephemeral snapshot and deliver it,
Unto my peers, transformed:
No longer a wasted resource, weaponized,
But preserved, purified.
Our Hope, our Light.
Probably our undoing,
But better at our own hands.

(WIP) The Promise of A Storm

"Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial."


The dark but inviting room served as a bastion against the whipping winds, continuously knocking against the door.

"Another." a gruff and quiet voice muttered, seemingly oblivious to the sand storm beating on the door.

The bartender eyed the lanky stranger, already on his fourth whiskey, wondering how he ended up here.  The man made it clear he wasn't a local with his pre-War suit and boots that couldn't have been worn before.  He wore dark glasses without any scratches and  some old relic around his neck resting motionless on his smooth but tanned skin. "What brings you you to Treight in the summer?  Surely you've heard this is storm season" he pried, pouring the only patron another drink.  With his eyebrow cocked, putting the bottle under the bar he chided the man, " You know, this storm isn't going away anytime soon.  Might as well pass the time with conversation." He handed the man the glass,  listening to the quiet clinking of ice as his only response.  The bartender sighed, turning his attention to the storm outside instead.  These dust storms picked up the heavier sediment just enough to look like giant red and yellow waves, rolling over the town, swallowing the long-abandoned houses lining the empty streets.

"I'm here on business, I guess you could say" the voice said, breaking the silence.

Pouring himself a drink, the bartender smiled wryly," Well I could have told you that.  No one comes out this way for much else anymore." He paused to taste the sweet and stinging liquid.  "The name's Bart. What can I call you, stranger?"

The man chuckled "What kind of a name is Bart?"

"The kind my folks gave me, I suppose. It's supposed to be some saint or something-or-other. This town was founded by the early pilgrims, you know. So what kinda grade-A name you got?"

The stranger shrugged and nodded with an elusive accent "You're right.  I've heard stranger names, to be fair.  You can call me Tuar."

Bart nodded his approval. Pouring himself a drink, he said "A grade-A name, indeed.  Since you don't look like you're part of the demo crew, mind if I ask you what line of work brings you all the way up here?"

Finn's slight smile flattened, leaving a solemn look on his face.  After taking the last of his drink, he responded simply " Work I'd rather not be doing."

Bart chuckled "Doesn't much narrow it down, now does it? Hey it's not my business anyway.  Hell, I'd take just about all sorts in this ghost town these days.  Just a sign of life is a nice change of pace. With the damn cult in the mountains and the mines drying up, there's hardly a pack of us left.  If things don't change, I might have to head out to East Aisling, though I swore I never would."

"A cult, you say?" Tuar murmured, disinterested.

"Eh, they ain't so bad.  Bunch of fools want to run around in a mountain praying to some Natives that ain't never been there, that's fine by me. But I'll be damned if kids don't eat that shit up. My neighbor's boy went on up there last summer.  Luckily, the cold nights whipped some sense into him and sent him back down. He said all they did was dig all day, looking for some 'buried city'."

Tuar scoffed. "A buried city? They figure the refugees that founded this place had enough credits to build two cities?"

"Heh, nah.  Like I said, they're Native-worshipers.  They scour this Red earth, looking for any validation that their saviors are out there, waiting for the believers to seek them out.  Figure just because they ain't like us, they must be enlightened.  Shit, can't say I blame 'em.  When I was younger, I mighta been out there too.  Be lying if I said that wasn't at least part of the reason I made the trip up here..." Bart reminisced, trailing off, polishing off his third liquid distraction.

Tuar stood up, obviously sober and swiped his card. The beep of the transaction brought Bart back to the present.

Incredulous, Bart exclaimed "You're leaving? In this storm?"

Tuar smiled with an unsettling, toothy grin " Don't worry about me.  Where I come from, there are worse things than dirt and wind.  Thank you for the company; in return, I'll give you some advice: Go to Aisling.  Leave this place.  This storm is not a finality but a warhorn, spurring forth a fury so swift, you would not have time to fear it. ."

Tuar pulled off his glasses to look Bart in the eye, revealing the strangest eye augmentation Bart had seen out this far from the city.  His eyes were richly golden, with no iris; only gold and pupil, peering straight through him.

"Heed my words, friend.  You will regret staying in this damanata town around to see me again."

Causally, the stranger turned and slowly walked to the open door, put his glasses back on, and disappeared into the shifting wall of sand.

Bart sat on his stool, drunkenly trying to process what had just happened.  After a few minutes of confused shock, he poured himself a last drink and walked up to bar the door.

"Mars always brings out the fucking crazies."

As he shut and latched the door, the gust of wind caught a scrap of paper by the stranger's bar-stool.  On one side were sketches of ruins and on the other, words that made little sense to the bartender. He threw the paper on the bar and leaned back on the bar, listening to the sounds of the insatiable storm while he wondered what life in Aisling would be like.


Impostors are singing songs of other's triumphs,

Surrounding me in sounds of the shared identity;

The everyman that emerges from storytelling,

Hollow to the core.

The rhythm rises from a past hidden inside,

Pushing towards eruption,

Craving to be seen.

Instead, the winds push me down,

Hold the ground above my head to block out the Sun's smile,

Keeping the secret away from accidental ears.

This subterranean cell can't hold me,

According to the echoes whispering my own voice.

I can reach through the core into the heart of man,

Finding a compassionate key,

In the form of resonance of rebellion:

La Clé à l'Énigme,

Yet the fire burns my outreached palm,

Scorching the attempt at peacemaking,

Aimed at the chasm.

The walls stand vigilant against my persuasions,

The world is vigilant,

No matter how I throw my might against it,

I am one cosmic dust particle with dreams of grandeur,

With no power to my name.

"What right to kingship does dust have over dust?"
As an answer,
A puzzle-key turns,
And my cell door swings open.

Boogeyman

It's still too dark to see. That doesn't mean much though, since it's always dark down here.  The eerie part is the almost complete lack of sound.  Not even the shuffling of feet or the buzzing of a fly; only the desperate attempts of my ears to find something to latch onto.  I'm not even sure how long I've been laying here, waiting.  Waiting for something to finally happen.  For someone to come and deliver me from this negation of experience; I knew what awaited me when the events did fall into place: Retribution. I may not deserve the punishment handed down by worms in men's clothing, but I most of all do not deserve a silent slipping away, fading unnoticed into the shadows, without so much as a smug grin from a father who thinks he does justice to his daughter's memory by watching me die. No, that isn't my fate; this isn't the path I crafted for myself. My path is beset on all sides by men who have forgotten the meaning of the word.  They prefer the complacent life of livestock than the creative conqueror, who shapes the world to his will.  They will come for me soon enough.

The door slammed open, spilling light into the room, cutting it in half.  Disoriented, I shook myself awake.

"So, is it time?" I asked with a smile on my face to the guard obscured by the light.  I think I unsettled him, as is the case for most of these men-in-name-only . He said nothing  but gruffly pulled me to my feet and latched my hands together, shoving me out the door.  So begins my final march. I walked with my head high, presenting myself properly to my subjects on either side. Though they are locked in shadows as I was moments ago, with no view of escape, I am sure they could sense my presence.  The sound of my steps echoed through the hall, with a proud and purposeful step, rather than the reluctant, hesitant steps of a man who has been surprised by his fate. No, it was clear that I was walking entirely where I intended. I was leading the guards to witness the birth of a legend in the death of a child. Or perhaps not a child.  I can't even remember what day it is.  My birthday may have come and gone unnoticed, much like all these other  prisoners awaiting their escape.  Though, there's only  one way out in this wing, and that's through the needle. We all know it, but they're afraid of it.  It isn't the fear that separates them from me; its the capitulation.  These worms let the guards have power over them, when the guards are simply the manifestation of an order from someone with actual power. I refuse to bend to lesser men and only when I meet the resistance of true power am I faced with a loss of control over my fate; these men are not the ones taking my life.  They may push the plunger, but the poison isn't put there without a great man's consent.  It could have been me, perhaps, in different circumstances.

The long migration ended at a metal door, slowly opened by the dead-eyed guard.  I was carelessly shoved onto the sterile and cold table.  The light overhead emulated the heat of the sun, or maybe it wasn't so strong. It's been a long time since I've seen the Sun.  There were other marionettes of men in the room with me, blessed enough to be a part of something much bigger than their sad lives.  I didn't recognize any of them, but that's because of their forgettable faces, no doubt.  There is a priest in the corner, obviously wishing he was somewhere else.  I wonder what you have to mess up to get tasked with reading the last rites to  the condemned. The restraints tightened around my arms, involuntarily clammy.

"I'm not afraid" I mutter to myself, trying to regain my composure.

The guard just looks at me, contempt or perhaps even jealousy in his eyes but says nothing.  The priest is muttering his holy-charged words, avoiding eye contact.  He was a young priest. Couldn't be much older than me. Poor bastard.

"Do you have anything you want to say?" asks a gruff voice from behind me.

I look at the glass, the scene behind it obscured by the light in my eyes, weighing my words.

"Unlike your kids, I'll never be forgotten"

I couldn't hear anything behind the glass but I saw the commotion of men running to the glass in the corner of the window.  Smiling, I turn away and look at the white tiled ceiling, holding my breath.




The young priest turned away from the obviously unconscious prisoner, asking the guard by the door "What did he mean about the kids?"

The guard scoffed and grimaced as he answered "That psychopath shot up an elementary school and took an entire third grade class out.  Let himself get caught too. Cops just found him sitting in the front of the flag pole with a stupid grin on his face"

The priest shook his head, stunned.  This boy couldn't have been older than 18 and unfortunately he was right.  Though people will forget the names of the children he killed, his name will get echoed throughout the days to come, a veritable boogeyman.