Today I want to see how many cars go by. It’s cold outside and there’s not a soul around.
Neither a passer-by, nor a cyclist.
This is the rush hour.
A car arrives. It moves slowly. I think it’s someone who lives nearby and comes home after work.
Others should follow.
from one lockdown
Mama’s coffee sucks. Chicory-harsh with powdered cream. On a scale of one to ten, it’s a three. Better than Pop’s brown water with powdered cream. It’s a two.
E. L. Blizzard
Dinner flip-flop-flips on the hooks. They climb the bank to their fire drum. Salted, sizzling skins are popped in mouths that grin warm-belly bliss. A mutual moment of plenty before tomorrow’s rumblings. Reading lines by flashlight from second-hand journals is their nightly home entertainment. Laughter stumbles over spoken word, interrupting their recitations with impersonations of celebrities.
Cold fingers share communion in this private camp. Praying over one another’s skin, their joined bodies sing hymnals. Two voices rise and call and hush into exhaustion. Sleeping under rainfall, they do not dream.
A cough and another. Their days tighten into wheezes and fevers. Wrapped up holding each other, they sleep in fits and starts. Sipping pine needle tea and breathing in its steam, their comfort word offerings weaken. They are together alone and scared.
a hike find
E. L. Blizzard
The earliest records of the Mesophile refer to a Creation Myth: how they emerged from the primeval darkness and, thanks to the Sun’s bounty, moderate temperatures and an adequate supply of oxygen were able to take root and thrive.
By their reckoning thousands of generations had passed since The Great Sprouting.
Mesophilian culture had passed through three stages: the coccus, bacillus, and spiral. They were now on the cusp of advanced civilisation.
The ancient seers spoke of the Dark One, whose coming would blot out the Sun and plunge Mesophilia into blackness.
Then Craig came and binned the mouldy cheese.
the universe turns in on itself
a thought trips the synapses
and an eternity passes
At what frequency does this thread vibrate?
Bach at twilight
the spider’s choreographic
pssst listen a cloud respirating
it’s the wind sighing, “You’re mine”
a woman’s vibrato could be sadness in a real world
am I stepping into a soul?
carbuncled cheeks a shivering chin
absent sky absent life still life
my toes sanded gray ten wiggling stones
deciphering the language of seals
rumours rise on a bench the now a honking overhead
a flickering V hurriedly ink-brushed
pierces the blue that ocean groans have frayed
no matter the pitted grass footfalls crackle on brittle heliotrope limbs
in the eye in the end
on the beach
Fairies left gifts here beneath the tree where she dreams. Which to choose. A trinket of wood? A trinket of gold?
through the leaves
for the hell of it
for the weight of yourself on your knees
for the whispering sigh of your voice escaping
for the sourness of hypocrisy pickling your tongue
for the darkening thoughts pooling like sludge in your heart
for the tangled dreams that strangle your sleep
for the gods to suit up for the team
for something besides the news
not a cloud
in the sky
1. Underground they stay up late because the longest worm is the one that sleeps in.
2. Pulling yourself up by the bootstraps is a clear sign you need help.
3. If you have a rock garden, the greenness of your neighbor’s lawn is beyond compare.
4. In a secondhand bookstore, the first thing you should do is judge a book by its cover.
5. I’m happy to say that I don’t know if ignorance is bliss.
my heart on the back
of my hand
I take my heart out of its box, dust it off, and fluff it like a pillow. The musty smell of old dreams permeates the room. Later, the good wine gone, we feel the future expand, but our plans grow bigger until we can no longer imagine them.
I put my heart back in its box. It can’t take anymore.
(beat; licking a finger to make the glass sing)