A letter to a boy

This is a letter to a boy who walks
head and shoulders above the rest -
always seeming like he's seeking
greener pastures, or looking for me.

This is a letter to a boy who catches up
when I let him, never knowing it's not just luck
that draws me out of the crowd I become,
because desperation is only fun for so long
when he says, "Come here, kitten,"
commanding voice, unflinching eyes - I'm smitten
and curiosity killed the . . . urge to wander away again
so now I'm done with pretending.

This is a letter to a boy who moves
like the weight of thoughts and ideas
future, present, past
could never hold him back from
me, a body he's grown to own
dragged from every syllable scratched
into this patchwork quilt of injuries, we make
together, one square at a time,
leaving bruises, drawing blood
as we ease towards what could
be the newest caution line, unrecognized
until cauterized with screams
fate plays cruel jokes with handcuffs and emotion
building devotion
and commitment to not trying to run away
from this moment in time when he first said
"You hurt me" and I was anguished that he meant it.

This is a letter to a boy who isn't all real
because we still both live partly in another century
and while he means what he says is still ambiguous
about if he means "us"
as in two people, or together.
In the wandering meantime wondering if we've played at house
long enough to pretend this could be reality.

This is a letter to a boy who once said
nothing in the silence
because the slowing breath of sleep
had stolen in to ration already-precious time
when he didn't realize Sleeping Beauty
was only partly enchanted and could still hear him.
So he slipped out of bed to pen her a poem
goodbye.

Awakened.

I don't think I've been this captured by words
since I was back in the past
twisted a little too close for comfort
by the dark-haired poet and his green-apple cigarillos.
There's a special place
reserved for those who forsake sleep for laughter,
and poor choices;
I'd show you the way, but I falter
and sink into the ground
like so much rainwater -
like so much thought.

This isn't me capturing your imagination.
Let's be clear.
This is about payback for promises
some other incarnation made and failed to deliver on.
This isn't about connections,
attractions - the failures
trial trial trial and error
bring.
If I were spontaneous the way you clearly aren't,
this would be about more than forging metal between two minds
far too perfectly suited to the welding process.

Let me hear your voice
and let it be song -
the painful, chaotic ring
of agonies unspoken.
And tell me when you do,
what the hardest part is
of being you.

The Dasti Experiment...16

These are idle musings.
Breaking down the world was only for amusement.
It takes accident torment to life.
Failure is the daughter of haste, cousin of deadlines.
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"Love...familiy. I know nothing of these things. Weapons do not form families. They form arsenals."

"A single human being is an entire world...I'd like you to just make a guess at how many worlds were destroyed today."

"No matter how many times I say 'I love you', I will never be able to make you fully understand the way that you make me feel."

"I am now going to disassemble you and arrange the pieces alphabetically "
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Family is a gift that too many people take for granted. Family is a concept lost upon the modern age. But maybe that's okay.

Dasti ran without knowing exactly where.

The streets lay empty and cold. The blaze of the church beckoned.

There existed no time. Not night, day, midmorning or even watch.

Time did not exist.

Dasti ran.

The church burned.

Eloro watched the burning church from her armchair, rocking back and forth over the shattered corpses of cups.

When all else fails, there are weapons.
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In the Bible, Cain demands to know if he is to be his brother's keeper.

"Stay awake," Nirax said. "Stay awake or you'll miss it."

Airthe struggled to keep his eyes open.

The burning church lit the air to make breathing a chore.

Air, air, Airthe's lungs sang. Air, air. Air to breathe.

"Stay awake," Nirax said. "Stay awake or you'll miss it."

Airthe's eyes demanded to close, against the smoke.

The burning church lit the air.

Air, air.

To breathe.

Air to breathe.

Air, air, Airthe's lungs begged. Air without smoke.

"Keep your eyes open."

The church exploded.

In real life, Abel kept Cain.
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Silver is the representative of longing and affection unfulfilled. Gold is just longing. That's always unfulfilled.

"What way are we going home?

"By foot."

"But what way?"

"The long way?"

"Oh. Okay." Totaz stopped pulling Saxiel's hair. "I like the long way."

Saxiel smiled.

"Why do you like the long way?"

Totaz smiled. He kissed Saxiel's cheek.

Saxiel flushed.

"You hold me longer this way."

This feeling, this longing – corruption. Fear. We are different. Always.
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Moving parts. Not for children under tn years of age. Some assembly required.

"Someone, someone help me!"

The crowd passed in silnce. The finger of accusation had too many other people to point to.

She had a job.

He had kids.

She felt tired.

He carried groceries.

They didn't want to get involved.

And they…they just didn't care.

"Help! Help!"

Bruesia made it sound like a plea.

Tsisas laughed. He held a bloody knife against her chest.

Bruesia leaned forward slightly.

The knife felt cold, even through her shirt.

Now we know our ABC's, next time won't you sing with me…

Missing you.

Miss me
like I'm already gone.
Like a funeral song
is playing.
Miss me
the way you'd miss a lover jilted
a table
tilted too far -
but just before it spills.
Miss me
after dark but yet
before dawn.
Miss me
until I'm really
truly gone.

The Dasti Experiment...15

Society tells us lying is bad. A white lie, a black lie – shades of untruth. Spare the feelings, cast doubt on truth. In the end, even breathing is a false alarm.

They slipped out the door together.

Tsisas wrapped an arm around Bruesia's shoulders. He looked back, right before the ememergecny door closed and the sirens started wailing.

"He'll be fine," Bruesia said.

Tsisas squeezed her shoulder. "Just keep trying to reassure yourself."

"He'll be fine."

They turned the corner on the street and kept walking. Tsisas' hand felt warm even through Bruesia's shirt.

They passed a gas station, a restaurant.

"This is my stop."

Tsisas drew Bruesia close.

They stared beyond one another. Tsisas' eyes unfocused. Bruesia shivered and looked away.

"Are you sure?" Tsisas' hand gripped Bruesia's wrist. Tsisas spoke softly.

Bruesia looked over her shoulder. People crowded the empty streets. "Sure," she said.

Tsisas laughed. "Game," he said. His hold on Bruesia's wrist tightened.

Bruesia smiled. Her smile flickered into anger. Her wrist jerked. "Let me go!"

Tsisas' hands caught at Bruesia's other wrist.

"Stop it! Stop – help!"

The streets held too many blind people. Bruesia screamed and struggled. Tsisas struck her. She cried out.

"You bastard!"

People crowded empty streets. No one said anything. No one did anything.

Mothers covered children's ears. Husbands blocked wives' views. People hurried by, not looking.

Tsisas laughed.

"Roll a one!" he said in Bruesia's face. He held up two dice to a crowd that did not halt. "Roll a one and I'll let her go!"

"Someone – please!"

Tsisas backhanded Bruesia with the hand holding the dice. "Someone save the bitch!"

This statement is true. The previous statement is a lie.

The Dasti Experiment...14

In this world, can we be sure we aren't just dreaming? Maybe the only ones who are actually awake are the ones we lock up because they see the truth. Human beings have never been friends with the truth.

"Are you done?"

Totaz nodded as he licked his fingers clean.

Saxiel rested his elbows on the wooden table. Totaz imitated him.

Saxiel smiled.

Totaz smiled.

Totaz stared into Saxiel's eyes.

Saxiel fixed his gaze on Totaz' right ear.

"Sax?"

"Yeah?"

"What're you thinking?"

Saxiel shook his head. "Why would I be thinking anything?"

"You look far away."

"It happens."

"Sax?"

"Yeah?"

"Pick me up?"

Saxiel nodded and stood. He made his way around the table – now with napkins – and put his hands on Totaz' shoulders. For a minute, Saxiel just looked at Totaz.

Totaz returned the gaze, fearless.

Saxiel lifted Totaz.

Totaz' arms wrapped about Saxiel's neck. Saxiel looked around, daring anyone to say anything.

The ice cream lot was almost empty. No one was looking at them. Saxiel relaxed.

Totaz kissed Saxiel's cheek.

Heat rose in Saxiel's face.

He took Totaz and walked away, as quickly as his feet would carry him.

We don't bother playing with reality anymore. That fell by the wayside when we began to learn about imaginary numbers and Let's Pretend.

The Dasti Experiment...13

The bonds of the living hold us. These are shackles. These are the ties that keep us from moving forward. These are the restraints that prevent perfection. These are the holds that keep us against the wall, backs straight, heads up, simply staring. Life is a straightjacket.

Nirax put the gun into his belt and extended his hands to Airthe.

Airthe stared at him.

"C'mon," Nirax said. Airthe didn't move. Nirax sighed and grabbed Airthe by the shoulders to haul him upwards.

"I don't have legs," Airthe said.

"'Course not," Nirax said. "But you don't need legs. I'll carry you."

"You're not strong enough."

Nirax pulled Airthe up, and held him. "Are too."

Airthe wrapped his arms around Nirax's shoulders. He glared at Nirax.

"Are too," Nirax said. He smiled.

Airthe leaned forward to rest his chin on Nirax's shoulder so he wouldn't have to look at him.

Nirax's arms held him.

The church floor, stained with blood, grew farther away. Nirax walked out of the church, holding Airthe against him, right out onto the lawn in front of the church.

The lawn did not belong to the church, but people called it the church's lawn anyway. Standing on the church's lawn, Nirax said something.

Airthe heard his voice, but not his words.

Airthe's head hurt. He stared at the grass over Nirax's shoulder. The grass was green and brown. It hadn't rained recently.

The grass was brown.

Airthe's head hurt.

He told Nirax to put him down.

Nirax held Airthe closer.

Airthe's head throbbed.

"No," Airthe said.

Nirax didn't respond.

Airthe stared at the grass. It turned black.

Sleeping is an impermanent form a death.

The Dasti Experiment...12

Lights in the darkness may only be your imagination.

"Amen," Eloro said once more before turning to wobble back to her chair. "An odd name for a boy, don't you think?"

Dasti nodded.

"Amen," Eloro said. She sat and put a hand to her chin, staring through the floor.

Dasti watched her.

Eloro rocked back and forth, back and forth, muttering to herself. Her words were too soft for Dasti to hear clearly. But he could hear the sound of her chair, scuffing the floor as she rocked. He could hear the sound of Eloro's breathing, clear and hard.

Dasti could hear everything.

He heard the breath of the drapes as they whispered in invisible breezes across a shut window. He heard the blind flies bumping into walls, and the excited squealing of a spider whose web caught one. He could hear the trills of the floorboards as Eloro rocked over them.

Dasti could hear anything.

He heard the church, then.

The church cried.

Dasti went to the windows and pulled them shut, even though they were already shut. He pulled the whispering curtains over the silent panes.

He could feel Eloro's eyes, watching him, but she did not see.

The windows, closed. The curtains, pulled. The cries, quieted.

But that was only because Dasti put his hands over his ears.

Eloro picked up a tea cup and put it to her lips. There was no tea in the cup. She put it back down. Eloro reached out for a different cup. It was also empty, but she raised it to her lips anyway. Then she put it back down. Again. Again.

"They're all empty," Eloro said. She sounded surprised.

Dasti pulled the curtains open again.

"All empty."

Dasti looked out the window. Flames jumped from the church.

"The church is on fire!"

"All empty."

"Eloro!"

"All empty," Eloro said, raising a teacup.

"The church!"

"Empty," Eloro said.

Dasti grabbed a coat from the wall and ran out of the room.

"Empty!" Eloro called after him.

She walked to the window and peered out. Then she stepped back and pulled the curtains across the window.

"Empty."

Wake up in the early morning and look out the windows. The songs of the birds are battle cries. Empty challenges. Empty. Empty like their skies. 

The Dasti Experiment...11

As we begin to sketch at our lives we keep in mind the memories.
Once upon a world was over, fighting for a caring shoulder.
Mirrors only reflect what we don't want to see; water shows us everything.
Step away from the light – it's only candles.
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"What do we have to lose? Our lives? We got those for free anyway."

"He looks disturbingly alive to be dead."

"If all of this were a dream, I'd still wake up in your arms. That's solid reality."

"Would you rather I had spared your feelings and let you die? I did what I had to do to save you, and I'm not about to apologize for it."
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Beyond this, what's there to lose?

Eloro shook her head at the uniformed boy. "Young man," she wheezed, "you are following orders."

He looked uncomfortable. "You're under arrest," he said again.

"Dasti looked from Eloro to the boy and back. Eloro appeared as fargile as her teacups; she looked as though a gentle tap might shatter her frame.

Eloro hobbled forward, into the boy's space. He stepped back.

Dasti hid a smile. Eloro's presence held power yet.

"Young man," Eloro said, looking the boy up and down, "you are far too young a man to be here with that." She pointed to the rifle clutched in the boy's hands.

"What you ought – what you ought to be doing is attending your studies and working on that brain of yours." Eloro reached out and firmly tapped the boy's skull.

He looked surprised, even faintly overwhelmed.

Dasti watched, invisible.

"If I were your mother I'd not stand for such nonsense," Eloro continued. She advanced a step. The boy retreated. Eloro put her hands on her hips. "How old are you?"

The boy's mouth opened to return, but Eloro waved a hand and cut off his words.

"Never mind that," she said. "Age is no factor. Just look at me." She stared the boy squarely in the eye, then. "Look at me, young man. If I were your mother, I'd send you straight home. Learn before you start fooling around with dangerous folk like these." She indicated his uniform. "And for the sake of us all, dress like you're a young man, not an overstuffed robot."

The boy's wide eyes blinked frantically as he nodded.

Eloro softened. "What's your name?"

The room jumped when gunshots sounded.

The boy's eyes had gone larger and he clutched his gun as though it were a shield.

"It's just the church," Eloro said. She paused. "You may want to go now."

The boy nodded and fled.

Eloro stood there silently. Dasti listened to the boot steps going down the stairs.

"What was his name?" Dasti asked when the house was silent.

"Amen," Eloro said. She seemed distracted. "Amen."

We have our lives, our chances. This is what we're given – loaned, more like – and at the end of life there's interest to be paid, yet none of us can pay it, so we go to debtor's prison. That's death.
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In death lies a cheap imitation of life.

Airthe pressed the barrel of the gun to the stone floor and pulled the trigger. The gun did not fire. Airthe laughed dully.

Useless now.

He tossed the gun away and crawled across the church floor. The trip was hard work. The floor had strewn across it the bodies of the fallen. Blood.

Airthe could smell the blood.

His clothes reeked, saturated.

Shadows danced along the floor. Broken windows filtered sunlight through heavy dust. The sun died on the way in, to the dimness and dullness of a broken shell of religion.

Then, footsteps.

Airthe crawled faster, and forced his body into a nook formed by broken stone benches. He watched.

A few men wandered into the room and checked for signs of life. None. All but one turned to go.

Airthe heard only a few words.

" – too alive to be dead –"

They were all the words he needed to hear.

Airthe tensed, ready to battle for his life with his bare hands. Mad, suicidal – but even a cornered rabbit will fight for its life.

"Let's go."

The uniformed men left.

Airthe breathed again.

"Amusing, isn't it?"

Airthe turned.

"Thought I'd really leave you?" Nirax drawled. He held another gun.

"Dependable," Airthe said.

"Isn't that what brothers are for?"

If you've ever stared into the eyes of a dead man, you know what it is to feel fear and hope at once. If you've ever tried to walk away from those eyes, you know what it's like to feel forever followed.
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Dreams are just nightmares that end prematurely. It's all linked the way life is linked to the falling.

"What kind of ice cream one you going to get?"

"I don't know. What kind are you getting?"

"I'm getting whatever you get."

"But I don't know what I'm getting."

"So decide!"

Totaz leaned back in Saxiel's arms. Totaz smiled.

Saxiel had to smile back.

"I like chocolate."

"Mmm – so do I."

"Should we get chocolate then?"

"Yeah!"

"What can I get for you?"

"Two chocolate cones."

"That'll be –"

Traffic drowned out the cost.

Saxiel had Totaz pass over cash and told the clerk to keep the change.

She gave over two cones in exchanged.

Saxiel let Totaz take the two cones and then walked to the empty tables. He set Totaz down and took a seat opposite. Totaz held out one dripping chocolate cone.

Saxiel reached out. His face felt warm when their fingers touched.

Totaz laughed and licked the drops off his own cone. Saxiel watched, entranced.

"You're dripping," Totaz said.

Chilly drops landed on Saxiel's hand.

Totaz reached out for Saxiel's hand. Saxiel let him take it. Totaz drew Saxiel's hand closer. His eyes sparkled.

Saxiel couldn't breathe.

The table jumped when a woman in white plunked a box of napkins down and moved on to the next table to do the same.

Saxiel had drawn his hand back, smearing chocolate against himself. Totaz laughed and grabbed a few napkins to offer Saxiel. Saxiel took them, careful not to let their fingers brush.

Totaz' cone had vanished.

"Are you going to eat that?"

Saxiel smiled softly and handed his over.

Totaz grinned.

Saxiel had to look away.

For the sake –

Reality says there are laws. Reality says there are ways to the world. Reality limits what is possible. That’s why we dwell in dreams.
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Happiness is akin to death.

"He thought you were dead."

"You mean to tell me I wasn't?"

"You're rather alive now."

"Thanks to you."

"You're welcome."

"Let's go."

"Leaving him?"

"I can't kill him."

"I can."

"There's been enough of that in pretend for now. Let's not make it a reality."

Tsisas nodded and offered Bruesia a hand. She took it and stood.

"A shame," Tsisas said.

"What?" Bruesia looked at Ascaeliat's prone body. "It's not." She spat on the ground. "Let's go."

Tsisas nodded.

"Let's."

If you're alive at the end of the war because of luck, you can complain about tactics. If you're alive because someone else lost his life to save yours – keep your mouth shut and cry when that damn anthem plays.

The Dasti Experiment...10

Force forward pushes back; equal pressure, equal power – but on one side of a gun there's a bruise, and on the other, a dead man.

Ascaeliat's hand connected with Tsisas' jaw.

Tsisas spun with the punch. He was laughing.

Ascaeliat saw red. His other hand lashed out, aiming for Tsisas' neck.

Tsisas fell backwards. On the floor, he was still laughing. His eyes followed Ascaeliat. His eyes were not laughing.

"She was alive!" Ascaeliat screamed.

Bruesia had been alive. The angle of her neck and the blood suggested so no longer.

"She was, she was!" Tsisas' sang. "She was indeed and guess what?"

Ascaeliat kicked Tsisas in the gut.

Tsisas doubled over, curling around the point of impact. His laughter mingled with wheezing. "Guess what?" he gasped.

Ascaeliat drew his foot back.

"She's not anymore," Tsisas said before lapsing back into giggles.

Ascaeliat kicked Tsisas in the face.

Bone cracked. Blood spouted from Tsisas' nose.

Ascaliat knelt and pushed a hand onto Tsisas' throat.

"Dead," Tsisas rasped between grunts that might have been laughter.

"I'll kill you."

"Will you?"

"Don't think I won't."

"I think you're hesitating."

"I'll kill you."

"Will you?"

Ascaeliat's hand tightened over Tsisas' throat.

"I'll kill you."

"I will kill you."

Hands, nails dug into Ascaeliat's throat until he let go of Tsisas' neck. His hands flew to his own neck, tugging, trying to get free.

"I will kill you!"

Tsisas sat up. He rubbed his throat, then started laughing. "All this violence – I think I need a nap."

Ascaeliat fought the hands holding his air away, pulled at the slender fingers around his neck. Strength lived in those fingers; he couldn't pull them away.

"Family ties, family lies – family building family's demise."

Tsisas sang, his voice lilting with the words.

"Family lives, family knives – family shrinking family's size."

Ascaeliat couldn't breathe. His neck hurt. He fought the grip. His movements grew feebler.

"Family flies, family cries – family killing family's nigh."

Ascaeliat saw red. Red faded to black. Black into nothingness.

Ascaeliat slumped down onto the floor.

"Family ties." Male voiced.

"Family lies." Female voiced.

Then together : "Family building family's demise."

If someone's been shot, they're shot. If someone's been stabbed, they're stabbed. If someone's been burned, they may be still alive, or their honor is far and dead.

The Dasti Experiment...9

The world comes full circle eventually, to the point where we no longer recognize beginning from end.

"Let's get ice cream," Totaz said. His fingers closed around Saxiel's neck. His face lay near to Saxiel's.

Saxiel looked away, down the street. "Ice cream?" he asked.

"Yeah!" Totaz said. "Ice cream." His arms wrapped tightly around Saxiel, holding onto him, clinging to his neck. "Please."

But Totaz said please so softly, that no one else could hear. Not the sky, not the ground, not even the smoke between them. His voice tickled the curl of Saxiel's ear, and brought a faint blush to his cheeks. But he did not reprimand Totaz; no one else had seen.

And what no one saw did not exist.

"Ice cream," Saxiel agreed. The smog could hear him; he was loud enough. "Chocolate?"

Totaz shook his head, and then pillowed it against Saxiel's shoulder. Totaz' legs dangled from where Saxiel's arms held him up.

"Strawberry," Totaz said. "I want strawberry."

Saxiel nodded and began to walk, holding Totaz close in. "Strawberry it is, then," he agreed.

Saxiel could not see Totaz' eyes, but he could feel the tepid breath across his neck.

Saxiel walked quickly.

For the sake of the world. For the sake of the world.

The ice cream shop doors hung open. A line of people twisted from the heart of the shop. Saxiel stood in line. His arms held Totaz up.

People looked at them, and looked away.

Totaz did not raise his head from Saxiel's shoulder.

Saxiel did not meet anyone's eyes.

Totaz' mouth.

Saxiel's face felt warm.

For the sake of the world, he did not look at anyone. For the sake of the young girl in pigtails, holding a twist ice cream cone, for the mother holding her hand, for the father who had paid –

Saxiel did not say anything.

He stepped up as the next few people moved up in line.

Saxiel felt Totaz smile against his neck.


In the end we kept everything inside, even though it tried to escape.

The Dasti Experiment...8

The quiet of midnight stretches into the hours of false dawn, when everyone can pretend to be alive when they're not.

He awoke to searing pain in his legs.

"Not dead yet," someone barked.

"Nearly," someone else said.

"Will be soon," a third voice added.

Not dead yet. Airthe registered the words. He was not dead yet.

His legs burned.

"He's lost too much already," someone said.

"Maybe he'll make it."

"Doubtful."

The church became dark. Airthe realized someone had extinguished a torch. His legs hurt in a peculiar way. The church swam in his vision. The smell of burned skin saturated the air.

"He's not dead," someone said.

"Nearly."

"Maybe not."

Airthe felt the cool metal of a gun beside him. It wasn't a gun he could use in defense: a small handgun. He drew it close. The motion went unnoticed.

Booted feet made sounds that echoed in the empty church.

Laughter echoed.

"He's not dead yet."

"It's just a matter of time."

"Are you sure he'll die?"

Airthe realized he did not want to die. He had no legs. The air smelled like burned flesh; his burned flesh. He did not want to die. The simple desire for life sprung from somewhere deep within. Airthe wanted life, even if he had no reason.

"Can we shoot him?"

"Just to be sure?"

"How much blood did he lose?"

Airthe held himself still. He tried to reason how much blood was in a human body. How much of that could he afford to lose? How much had he lost? The stickiness around him suddenly had meaning.

"He's breathing."

"He can't be breathing."

"No look, he is -"

The gun Nirax had left Airthe was warm in his hands.

"He's alive."

"Shoot him!"

Gunshots rang. No one screamed.

Then quiet reigned.

Airthe pushed himself upright and raised the gun to his mouth. The barrel burned his lips.

Alive.

There is no use for weapons beyond the ending of life; who wants to die? Who wants to die? Who wants... You there. Die.

The Dasti Experiment...7

Nostalgia corrupts: it's the poison that fools us into thinking the past wasn't like the present.

"It's cold out," Eloro said.

Dasti stepped away from the window.

"It's cold out," Eloro said again.

"Is it?" Dasti asked. He looked to the window. Sun glowed outside. "I hadn't noticed."

Eloro shook her head. "It's cold outside," she repeated. "It's always cold out when someone dies."

Dasti nodded.

They stood in silence.

Eloro hobbled forward. Dasti watched the table with teacups, prepared to rescue one if Eloro should bump into it by accident. She did not. He relaxed.

"You don't know how warm it used to be outside," Eloro said as she approached the window. "It used to be summer all the time - cheerful and warm." Eloro paused. "It's not anymore. Now it's just cold outside."

Dasti waited until Eloro turned away from the window. Her face sagged with exhaustion. Dasti put out a hand to help. Eloro brushed it away.

"The thing is," she continued after catching her breath, "it's not really a matter of how the world is put together. It's more a matter of the detailing over the construction."

Dasti just nodded.

Eloro hobbled back to her chair and sank into it. "Much better... Much better."

Dasti heard a door open somewhere downstairs. He heard it slam. He imagined the house rocking under the force of the closing.

The sound of boots reached his ears. They always checked the attic first.

"They always check the attic first," Eloro said. "No matter. Dasti, open the window, would you? Wouldn't do any good to pretend we've been listening if the windows are closed."

Dasti moved to obey.

The door opened.

A gun went off.

"You're under arrest!"

Another teacup shattered.

If the past was so much better, why does anyone look to the future?

The Written Page teaser

The Glass Tower of the Tome on Sigil Hill loomed ahead of Rune Midnight’s hovercraft. His pulse quickened – after dreaming of this moment for thirty-seven years, he was finally here at the very heart of the Navigator’s Kingdom, about to double park his floating spacecraft so he could run up the three-thousand-one-hundred-twenty-four-and-a-quarter stairs to reach the top of the tower and inspect the universally famed book of the month housed therein.

It was more than seven-eighths of the way through the lunar month, so the visiting populace should be at a minimum – just the way Rune Midnight had always envisioned this moment. After parking his hovercraft – it sputtered out right above a less sophisticated land rover – Rune Midnight stood tall for one last moment at the foot of the Glass Tower of the Tome on Sigil Hill. Then he dropped his shoulders into a hunch, pulled out a pair of sunglasses missing lenses to balance on his nose, affected a slight lilt to his step and proceeded with due gravity to tug on the door to the Tower. It didn’t open.

Rune Midnight tugged harder. Still nothing. He wrapped both hands around the bar on the door and pulled back with all his might. Both arms strained, muscles bulging, eyes oozing out of their sockets from the effort.

“It says to push.”

Startled, Rune Midnight released his death-grip on the door and swung about, bringing his fists to bear and assuming a ready-stance which all philosophers of Inverted Dreams had long since perfected: the fetal position.

On Writing.

Writing is inherently serious.

Right up until the moment when your characters get loose and go mad and take over whatever carefully constructed plot you've arranged.

Then it's just brutal.

I guessed I could see your heart on a different wave length - window pained and shame.

I believe in resolution over retribution.

And that saints once were sinners.

A Room Full of Suicides

They didn't want to die.

They wanted to make you miss them.

The pieces of poetry that cut the most are the ones you know ought to be true but just somehow don't apply to you.

200 Yards Butterfly

Your best race won't come from playing it safe. It comes from believing you can do more than you've ever attempted before.

Worse Reality

World hopping.

What? This isn't crazy enough for you to question.

A flicker of a smile.

I've endured worse realities.

The Affair

She doesn't want to come between them.

Just wants to understand.

Him...with her.

She with him.

Sees the affection but wants to know the why.

Embarks on a study of them.

Accidentally tears them apart.

And regrets it.

Wanted.

I want

to own this world.

the way it feels

I wanna hear

the peals

of laughter

under the singsong of the bells

I wanna touch

the empty atmosphere.

I'm gonna bring the back

to bear

Get outta the way -

I'm here.

Appearances.

I spent a day

in the life of a man

who's supposed to always look busy

without actually doing

anything.

WoD - Pattern

I’m not seeing the pattern here. The way your fingers press and lift, caressing skin like you were trying to tell a story, like you were writing a letter in invisible ink over the curves of my body, hoping that somehow, it’d mean something to me.
I think, if you wrote a letter on my skin, it’d be a thank you note. Or an I Hate You one. Something sentimental. Like a break up, done in verse. Or a change over from across time – sealed with a kiss from a romantic past we never enjoyed.

Goal Oriented vs Process Oriented

Take your eyes off the goal

to watch the process.

Like running

a long straightaway

on the interstate.

Boyfriend

I can't sleep

in the same bed

as my ex boyfriend

's memories

Beehive

The beehive in my head gets louder

when I'm alone

Nighttime silent

hunting me down

and buzzing

heyheyhey

have the answers yet?

all in white

all in white went my bird savaging
on a pale blue prayer of gossamer
into the windy fear.

soft flighty love gentle and ing
the ghostly obsession before.

changed be they from the cautious artist
the brilliant watery obsession
the watery ghostly obsession .

soft watery singer at a small painter
the simple dancer before.

wind at water went my bird savaging
savaging the earth down
into the windy fear.

soft flighty love gentle and ing
the silver air before.

prevalent be they more than a promising watery flame
the flighty small obsession
the decisive gentle obsession .

soft decisive hope at a gossamer dream
the clear love before.

wave at tower went my bird savaging
savaging the wistfulness down
into the windy fear .

soft flighty love gentle and ing
the clear idea before.

midnight blue be your broken heart
the shimmering careful obsession
the artful passive obsession .

soft artful body at the white wistfulness
the passive soul before.

All in white went my bird savaging
on a pale blue prayer of gossamer
into the windy fear .

soft flighty love gentle and ing
my whisper a fleeing wave before.

- Thirteen & e.e. cummings

Create Your Own Madlib on LanguageIsAVirus.com

WoD - Butterfly

I’m a butterfly swimmer.
I’m also a take-no-prisoners, bear-no-injuries, justice-to-the-wall type swimmer.
I’m the kind of swimmer your mother warned you about – the one who takes pride in being able to drown you and save you all at the same time.
I’m the kind of swimmer you fear behind the blocks, because I look like I could rip you to pieces when I smile.
I’m a butterflier.
Better fly away.

An Idea

Might the ”everyone’s beautiful” not be referring to outward beauty, but inward? Every human being on this planet is loved by at least one other person, after all – maybe that’s the beauty that we’re all looking to see.

Just an idea.

WoD - Clue

I don’t know what’s going on. It’s going to be insignificant in the end, I suppose. I want to answer these questions, but I haven’t a clue as to where to begin. Or even who to begin with. There’s going to be a beginning, and a middle, and an end, and there’s a story in here somewhere, but when I find it I’ll be the first – maybe the second – to let you know. It’s happening, now all at once, and then there will be chaos. Oh yes. Chaos.

WoD - Curse

I’d curse you, but if I did, then maybe I’d use the wrong words and accidentally cure you of your illness. Your sick mind that thinks everything is about you…and me. About us, about what we could be, if we were to get together beyond dusk and the falling stars, under the apse of the sky and sigh together, so close until breaths that were apart, were one.

I’m done.

These consequences aren't criminal - just confusing.

Lost and losing are actions with consequences; not knowing where you are is a fact of existence, a statement of pure unadulterated truth. Once you find truth, you go forward.

Maybe silence is the moment when we realize we are lost – but wanderers live best when they do not know where they are.

Meager Reality

I sat under a clouded sky and watched the lightning bugs as they flashed their death signals to one another – each trying to find a True Love before the biological clock ran out. I saw clouds dipped into soot and drenched in ashes, growing darker, darker and saw lights grow brighter. I caught Life and Death – inescapable metaphors of reality – in a breath, in my hands and realized how meager existence really is. I’ll step out onto a blade of grass waving in the wind, and put out words, in hopes they’ll reach something in someone somewhere.

I don't know you and frankly I don't care

The medium of words connects us – somehow, some way, we’re locked in a mental embrace with one watching the truth unfold and the other seeking to understand.
It’s a two way street, this connection of mind and soul, this heart and body exchange.
So maybe I’m speaking from the outside, looking in when I say, hey –
We’re all brothers and sisters here--
But really I’m on the inside, looking out to let the new children in.

Is someone thinking about you again?

I live
in life’s sweat lodge.
There are few
shivers,
few moments when someone
may be thinking
about me.
But many,
many
when I think
about everyone else.

Everyone else

"Everyone else"
exists as a mental puzzle
like trying to understand
the limits of the universe
or how to take blue
out of purple.

Part Two - Whatever

Take a moment
on the sidewalk
around noon
and stare –
look around
for the woman
with the twisted mouth,
hiding tears,
the five-year-old
tying his shoes,
the old man,
walking a tiny pink bicycle
and holding a balloon.
Tell yourself
these are the people -
What they do
might be of no import,
but maybe,
just maybe,
even seeing them,
has something to do with you
and what you
are supposed to become.

Part One - Whoever

I have no idea
where you are,
when you are -
but sometime near dusk,
look out the window.
If the clouds are water-
colored, dainty
parchment pink -
there’s someone out there
who wants to tell you
something.
Your job is to find
whoever it is.
And learn it.

Memories I just wanted to give away

Money isn’t the answer
to memories.
If I knew what was,
I’d tell you.
But I’m still there myself,
trying to forget
a year of silence.

difference: anger and frustration

the difference between anger and frustration
is

frustration keeps the emotions in your own hands; you can do something about it; you can make a choice

anger puts the emotions in someone else's jurisdiction; you no longer have a choice to make

A dose of self control II

A good story is something that touches the heart,
activates the control centers of the mind,
makes us think,
and feel,
and sometimes…hurt.

The best story I ever heard
was told in short sobs
from a man the size of a young child
who had begged on a street corner
all night long,
with every rich man and woman
walking by, hands in the air:
-No money, no money.-

After a story like that,
I hand over what I have
when I can,
and always make it a point to smile,
and say, hey -
Take care, brother.

A dose of self control

I knew a girl like you, once.
She destroyed herself
by putting others first,
always.
She had a second chance,
and destroyed others
but putting herself first,
always.
There’s got to be a medium -
maybe not happy, always,
but there.
Some safer road to walk.

I think we’re different;
I walk the streets
Saturday nights
handing out cash
to the homeless
who tell good stories.

The pieces of poetry that cut the most are the ones you know ought to be true but just somehow don't apply to you.

When you tell a story like this one, you don’t want people to look at you and back away slowly. You want to put your words out there and then look into their eyes and find acceptance, if not open welcome. You want to have them embrace your emotions, if not your person. But when it happens – as it often does – that they back away with that wild animal look in their eyes, you know you’ve gone too far, and that maybe telling them why you’re here doesn’t bode well for your futures together.
But what can you do about it when you’re all incarcerated for killing someone you should have loved?

Stephen King

Breaking hearts, kept in jars on someone else’s desk.
Broken hearts, pieced back together on the potter’s wheel, moulded and shattered, then with a little glue made mosaics.
Healing hearts, beating again, but strangely, these frankensteinian creations, shaped out of more than one.
Pieces, parted from their original function – a little bit of Stephen King strung together, and still:
The heart of a young boy, in a jar on my desk.

If I feel rage

I won't deny it.

I won't fear love.

I love your smile so much I wish I could copy-paste it onto the faces of all these depressed people around me.
I don’t like depressed people.
Their sadness makes mine feel less unique.

Waiting

is a patient game

that continues

long after both contestants

are assumed

to have given up.

Sneaky

I’m gonna sneak into your heart
make off with the kids making out next to your locker
take off with someone else’s erasers from art class
and this time,
i won’t give ‘em back
I’m gonna scale the buildings
and take photos of the angels, like paparazzi that wont be caught
I’m gonna see what it takes to take you seriously, again
I’m gonna sneak back into the past
and rewrite our future
by redoing the beginning –
making foreclosure on the relationship redundant
and fastening the seat-belts so that this time
my belief won’t go through the window.

Dear Dancer

Press

Operated

Battalion

Ordinance

Xeroxed

One-ce upon a time

Five days a week

Eight hours a day

Four minutes an hour (I think)

Goldilocks and the bears

Advanced nearer

My humblest of abodes

Before

I managed notice

Excitedly inciting

Riots

Orange-plastered paint jobs on a double

Helix of workmanship fallen through

Four days an hour

Three minutes a year

Oh, but to laugh at time

Two minutes again

Too good to be true