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16 February 2011 @ 03:58 pm
Please note:
My writing will now be updated and relocated to The Sketch Slinger, feel free to stop by and say hello!
25 September 2010 @ 08:27 pm
You thought - of me,
After I entered into the sea with my clothes on -
We are sand, and glass:

One unfinished, raw.
The other, past deconstruction.
21 September 2010 @ 11:52 pm
We've built a smokehouse this winter,
from cedar planks and sod,
packed the crevices with clay and dust.
Here we have visions that defy language.
From a hole in the roof we can see
between the great bear's paws
a salmon, struggling,
its flesh white and raw when it opens,
scales crackling with dry hurt.
Fire roasts our feet.
Smoke descends like lightning
borne from a clear fat moon.
This place we've built away-
-to here.
19 September 2010 @ 11:33 am
If anyone is interested, I wrote the beginning of a play for a Stage and Screen class. Since I don't want to be *pinged* for plagiarism, any interested readers can comment and I'll send it to you in a secure manner.
01 September 2010 @ 07:03 pm


"How long has it been?"

He hummed under his breath. Ants crept up into his brain, through the wide eyes and ears. They tickled, their little white-stocking feet carefully clinging to the sides of his head. He could see them, each holding a cue card with a question scribbled in thin ballpoint. There was an office in his mind, he noticed, and it was full of filing cabinets, full of cue cards, full of ants. He wondered if they knew what was written on the cue cards, if they'd ever tried to read their own questions.

How long had it been? Since when, little ant? It had been over twenty or forty years since he lost his first tooth, he thought, running them under his tongue, smoothing them down into his mouth until he looked like a fish. No teeth but the sharp ones. They'd learned about teeth in grade school, he saw. There were file-ants for teeth, and for which ones only dogs had, and cows, too. He could remember all the questions that were written down and filed away.


"Can you hear me?"

The paying-attention ant had left for a while now. They wondered when he would be back at the office. There was so much work to do, and so few hands to carry all the words. That was what he did: he carried, he stacked, he labeled and he filed. Then the words all disappeared. How long had it been since he saw those papers? A year? Perhaps. Which ones did they need at the time?

I need you to show me someth-

John looked up.

"Sorry? Which ones did you need?"

"I asked you how long it was since you were last at work."

"Oh." Oh. Oh. OH. "Did you really?"



The whistle sounded for lunch break and the ants all stopped, set down their files, and sat down to eat with a crackling of tiny tin lunch boxes opening. The higher-up of the ants, Mr. J. Ant, checked to make sure his crew had settled before climbing the stair to the queen bees - with the corner offices - to report on the progress the workers had made since the morning. The bees were appropriately impresses, and set up several charts, pointing at the figures and making equally appropriate faces when required. No ant quite knew what the charts were for, of course. It was one of those vague official mysteries.

The bees hissed in their typical way. That was one thing, John noted, about bees. They always knew patterns that no one else did, unless you also happened to be a bee, of course. John was an ant, and he knew it. His father was an ant, as was his grandfather, and all the way back to the beginning. Once again, typical ant behavior, walking in straight lines one after the other. Bees had patterns, ants had lines.

"Oh," said John.

"Oh?" asked the bee.

"Oh yes, it's been quite a while I suppose." John looked at the words in the air. They didn't look at home there, outside the office.

"Quite a while, indeed, John," the bee mused.

The bee was beginning to make John a little bit tense, with his questions and musings. John was not a tense person, he was a line person, and the patterns that the bee was flying were spinning his head a little. He reached up to press the handicap-assist buttons on the doors into the office. They were somewhere near his ears, not that they were much used by anyone. There is no such thing as a handicapped ant. The heat of real air mingled with the AC and the smell of paper and work. The workers brightened as they finished their meals. John could start work again.

"I was very tired, Mr. MacGregory. But I'm ready to go back to it now."

"Are you sure, John? It has been quite an ordeal for you, these last few days. I'm sure we could get you some more time off, if you need."

"No, no, that won't be necessary, Mr. MacGregory. I am much better now. Getting back to work will only do me good."

"Well, if you're sure."

"I am."

"Welcome back, John."
13 June 2010 @ 12:38 am
Red spiral falls from oak’s twisted claws,
round-edged and light bending to silken soil
killing itself on the fringe of autumn
without fear of heaven’s reward

He didn’t grow believing he’d be golden
after the fall
he didn’t believe at all

Unaccountable and carefree as a child
even in the ancient years
the tides do not read history texts
to the pebbles, and expect a response
from the horizon line.

The whirlygigs and the flatbottoms pile
sticky shoe-suckers hide on the corners of the pavement
waiting for our sneakers to carry them on.
12 June 2010 @ 08:59 pm
Twin pinnacles of right and left,
at sides
on the wings of moths.

Oyster-shell ashtray
beneath the embers.

Tantrum ensues as we battle:
uppercut to the jaw, kick to the chest,
throwing punches past the fury.

Square off
to meet the lovers—

One, used to affection,
cannot be without,
cannot be out of the game.

The other does not know the rules,
has never read a manual,
doesn’t know the code,
the tricks,
the trades.

Physics defines the past through real
light-play on the edge
of the eyes of the Titan
holding the earth.

Lost art of hustling
recovered, balancing and acting.