Ten Million Pyre Flies

Indeed, you would not believe your eyes.

They lit up the dark as I fell asleep.

Ring around the rosie.

pocket full of posies.

They say that was about the black plague, other's say that posies wasn't even a word in English back then. And why did no one else make the connection until 1961? The cure, supposedly, turned out to be fire. They burned the city down. It chased the rats away.

Ashes, ashes.

We all fall down.

Tomorrow is another day. In fact, today is very nearly another day. And next week is another week. Perhaps that one will do as well as this one.

Io ti amerò per sempre. E tu a me?

By this skin of my teeth

Lately I find that my memory of media is getting confused. When I think about a book I read, I remember that it was read to me in a pleasant, anonymousness, female voice. On further reflection I realize that I had actually read all of those words in black an white. Or this web comic I found. More of a graphic novel, really. I remember watching the action as if it had been animated. And the imagined animation was of considerably higher artistic quality than the original.

This brings up so many questions.

Is this because I have an overactive imagination? Am I overly optimistic, always perceiving the world as being better that it really is and ultimately deceiving myself? Am I just worst at remembering things that I though? And why do I read to myself in my head with a woman's voice? That one is a little disturbing, honestly.

Oh, well. Happy New Years!

Said Reepicheep

"The ocean breathes salty, won't you carry it in? In your head, in your mouth, in your soul. And maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both grow old. Well I don't know. I hope so."

"Well that is that and this is this. Will you tell me what you saw and I'll tell you what you missed, when the ocean met the sky. You missed when time and life shook hands and said goodbye."

"As life gets longer, awful feels softer. Well it feels pretty soft to me."

If I can just make it out of my hole. If I can just escape somehow, then maybe i'll get to where I'm going. If I waist life, why wouldn't I waist the afterlife.

"I could buy myself a reason, I could sell myself a reason, I could hang myself for treason, oh, I am my own damned god."

The brush on lot must be cleared, burned, and washed before any construction can begin.

Mr. Song Writer,

build me a song.

Carve it from bone.

Make it long,

sad and strong.

Simon and Garfunkel say that monkeys stand for honesty. But, then again, they also say that antelope are missionaries. Antelope are not missionaries. That's silly.

Today I followed a rubber ducky. He led me two miles. He was wearing boxing gloves.

The Grilled Cheese Sandwich of Shame

I'll start the car, but we'll stay in park.

The cold can kill us before fumes.

Now is the right time for a good song.

Get something to say what can't.

Do you feel bad, like i feel bad?

Pour us a road . . .

. . .

Give me everything you've got now.

I don't feel a single thing.

Drag me out into the cold rain.

Let it hover over me . . .

. . . let it fill me up let it freeze let it break

something has got to give

Save Face, Brave Face

I once thought that the most comforting words that I had heard where, "There will be days like this." It meant to me that what's going on is not something that happens just to me, but it's something that happens to everyone sometimes. There will be days like these for other people too. It made me feel a lot less alone. It also holds the vague promise that there will be days that will not be like this. And some of those days might be better than this one.

Sire Shim

Brother Clide gripped his robe tightly as he climbed up the stairs. This sort of thing had happened before, but not quite like this. He hurried a round a corner at the top and stopped abruptly in front of a large wooden door. After a moment's pause raised his fist and gave a knock that he hoped was both respectful and urgent.

An exasperated voice from inside informed Brother Clide that the door was open.

"Sire, there is something that I think you should be aware of," he said as he stepped through the door.

"And what would that be?" the harsh morning sunlight through the large stained glass window made it hard to make out the face of the man sitting behind the desk. There was no other furniture in the office. Sire Shim did not want to encourage anyone to stay any longer than necessary.

"A child was left on our doorstep last night."

"So? You didn't think it was necessary to inform me when the Miller infant was left here last year."

Brother Clide tried not to grimace. He didn't know that rumor had gotten so far around. The mother had come to claim the child a few days later. He swallowed. Finally he said, "I really think you should see this one."

Brother Clide stepped aside and gestured into the room a tall, dark skinned boy.

The Sire looked up from his papers for the first time and leaned back in his chair. After a deep sigh, Sire Shim asked "What's your name, son?"

"Facundo," the boy said in a soft sharp voice.

"And what are you doing here?" the Sire continued.

"My mother wanted me to be raised somewhere I could get an education."

The Sire looked him up and down, "It looks like you've already been raised. How old are you, son?"

"Fourteen. It took us a while to get here."

"You're mother traveled fourteen years so she could leave you here?"

Facundo's face went cold and steely, "We traveled slowly."

The Sire studied him intently before saying, "I see. Can you sweep a floor?"

Facundo squinted, "I think so," he said carefully.

"Good. Go down stairs and find Madam Stiller. Tell her that she is to feed you and find you a bed to sleep in when you're done sweeping for the day." The Sire went back to reading his papers.

Facundo nodded, turned, and disappeared silently down the stairs.

Brother Clide ducked a little to try to get a look at the Sire's face. "So does that mean we're going to keep him here?"

"It means he's going to sweep the floor today. Then we'll see about tomorrow. Please shut the door firmly on the way out. It sticks sometimes."

Honestly.

Once:

I can still remember the words and what they meant, as we etched them with our fingers in years of wet cement. The days blurred into each other, though everything seemed clear. We cruised along at half speed, but then we shifted gears.

Now:

We ran like vampires from a thousand burning suns, but even then we should have stayed. But we ran away.
Now all my friends gone. Maybe we’ve outgrown all the things that we once loved. Runaway! But what are we running from? A show of hands from those in this audience of one. Where have they gone?

Beware of Bear

we are lighting matches just to watch them burn.

"Watch the matches. Turn to ashes.

I could tell as you turned.

I smelled the sulfur so clear.

And fire's a beautiful sound"

i am not so good at what I do.

i am not so good.

i am again to be the kid with the chemicals. ("I think he said to meet him here but I'm not sure")

i carry death on my back with my own world between my ears.

who will keep me company?

who will keep me . . .

Thank You for the Venom

I wouldn't front the scene if you paid me

I'm just the way that the doctor made me

On and on and on and on.

You'll never make me leave
I wear this on my sleeve
Give me a reason to believe

So give me all your poison
And give me all your pills
And give me all your hopeless hearts
And make me ill

I'm running after something that I'll never kill . . .

. . . And so you see, I used to blog when I was lonely. I used to pretend that I wanted someone to notice me, but "no one even knew, it was really only you." But now I'm not lonely anymore, and I almost don't know what to do with myself. I am happy. I really am.

Right now I'm going to sleep on couch because that's the sort of adventure that I could do with at the moment.

Trivia: To create and anti venom, you have use the original venom from the snake.

Who I am Hates Who I've Been

Sometimes I fear I will be rescued from this bored life . . .

And then I found out that even after all of the things that I am not, I still am. As the man said, I think therefor I am. You cannot argue with logic like that.

And I remember the partridge in a pear tree.

Time consumer, time consuming, time consume me.

After all that has been said of Mice and men, are none of us agents?

Where is the fiery fire? Scream loud, scream sianara, sweet Josephine, will you follow me home? But I cannot follow the wanderings of Claudio. I do not have the super-secret codex.

And thus I muse my useless musing as one in the morning. Good night, Seattle.

Istanbul was Konstantinople

Even old New York once New Amsterdam. Why the changed it, I can't say. People just liked it better that way. So take me back to Konstantinople, no you can't go back to Konstantinople. Been a long time gone, Konstantinople. Why did Konstantinople get the works? That's nobody's business bu the Turks.

. . .

Every gall in Constantinople

Lives in Istanbul, not Constantinople

So if you've a date in Constantinople

She'll be waiting in Istanbul

. . .

There's a picture opposite me

Of my primitive ancestry

Which stood on a rocky shores and kept the beached shipwreck free

Thought I respect that a lot

I'd be fired if that was my job

After killing Jason off and countless screaming Argonauts

It's been a big day for those I know

Today La Nena finally set sail. It will be a long voyage there and back, may she be more sea worthy than she appears.

Columbus got his long deserved promotion and proudly bares the tile of captain, though he will likely be in dry dock for quite some time. While Jude Law flounders in a storm of papers.

All will be well. All is well.

"Everything, It Must Belong Somewhere"

This is, as has been said, the first day of the rest of my life. The rest of my life being defined as the part of my life starting with today. It will be busy, I suspect.

Let the past stay there, I say. The lake should not be dragged unnecessarily.

Leave the bright blue door on the whitewashed wall

Leave the death ledger under city hall
Leave the joyful air in that rubber ball today

Just leave the lilac print on the linen sheet
Leave the birds you killed at your father's feet
Let the sideways rain in the crooked street remain

Leave the whimpering dog in his cold kennel
Leave the dead starlet on her pedestal
Leave the acid kids in their green fishbowls today

Leave the sad guitar in its hardshell case
Leave the worried look on your lover's face
Let the orange embers in the fireplace remain

Leave the ocean's roar in the turquoise shell
Leave the widower in his private hell
Leave the liberty in that broken bell today

Just leave the epic poem on its yellowed page
Leave the gray macaw in his covered cage
Let the traveling band on the interstate remain

Leave the secret talks on the trundle bed
Leave the garden tools in that rusted shed
Leave those bad ideas in your troubled head today

Just leave the restless ghost in his old hotel
Leave the homeless man in that cardboard cell
Let the painted horse on the carousel remain

Leave the old town drunk on his wooden stool
Leave the autumn leaves in their swimming pool
Leave the poor black child in his crumbling school today

Leave the novelist in his daydream tune
Leave the scientist in her Rubik's cube
Let the true genius in the padded room remain

Leave the horse's hair on the slanted bow
Leave the slot machines on the riverboat
Leave the cauliflower in the casserole today

Just leave the hot bright trash in the shopping malls
Leave the hawks of war in their capitols
Let the organ's moan in the cathedral remain

In truth the forest hears each sound
Each blade of grass as it lies down
The world requires no audience
No witnesses, no witnesses

But I do.

Alone, I am not.

Like Schrödinger's quantum mechanics I don't exist if I'm not observed.

Sooths

I saw the Saturday Evening Ghost. She plays the cello for a band called Iso Principle.

I learned that an airplane that has slowed down in it's assent does not cease to fly.

balls of fire burning in the blackspace

Imagine for a second a river of fire.
You've probably thought of something like a river a lava. That's not what I want exactly. That's really just a river of rock. Really hot rock, and it is sometimes on fire, but it's not quite a river of fire.
Now, imagine a river of fire. A river of flames. It rushes and roars like a jet engine. Buffeted from side to side by the rocks. The torrent of fire rushes along the winding floor of the canyon. Wide curves seem to be straining to hold the fire in it's path while sharper corners violently deflect and redirect the river int a new direction. From above, the chared rock and soot that extend halfway up the canyon walls make the canyon look deeper than it really is. The river is brilliant red against the black backdrop, but in the sunlight it seems to flicker. The smell of burning permeates everything, and the breeze dose not drive it away. At night, though, the wind shifts, bringing sweet. The dirtiness of the soot is invisible in the black of the night and the clouds all around are lit by a red glow from below. The river is a ribbon of violent red weaving through the canyon bellow and eventually out of sight around a bend. Whatever the river does not illuminate is pure darkness.

The Riddle

I got two strong arms.
Blessings of Babylon time to carry on
and try for sins and false alarms
so to American the brave wise man save.

Near a tree by a river there's a hole in the ground.
Where an old man of iron goes around and around.
And his mind is a beacon in the veil of the night.
For a strange kind of fashion there's a wrong and a right
But he'll never never fight over you.

I got time to kill.
Sly looks in corridors without a plan of yours.
A blackbird sings on bluebird hill.
Thanks to the calling of the wild
wise mens child.

I got plans for us
Nights in the scullery
And days instead of me
I only know what to discuss
Oh, for anything but light
Wise men fighting over you

It's not me you see.
Pieces of valentine
And just a song of mine.
To keep from burning history
Seasons of gasoline and gold
Wise men fold.

Near a tree by a river there's a hole in the ground.
Where an old man of iron goes around and around.
And his mind is a beacon in the veil of the night.
For a strange kind of fashion there's a wrong and a right
But he'll never never fight over you.

I got time to kill.
Sly looks in corridors without a plan of yours.
A blackbird sings on bluebird hill.
Thanks to the calling of the wild
wise mens child.

The View from Aloft

It's all about the mountain. I always said it was. Beside the mountain there is nothing. It doesn't matter if you go up, live there, or dig caves into it where bears live. The mountain is all that there ever was. And all that will remain after. I have always said that. There is nothing that compares to it, nothing that can take it's place, and nothing more important. If I say so, why is it that I do not go up? Character.

The world's your oyster shell, so what's that funny smell. You eat the bivalve anyway, you're sick with salmonella. Get your PhD, how happy you will be when you get a job at Wendy's and are honored with employee of the month.

Ripe with things to say, but the words rot and fall away.

Rebels of the Sacred Heart

But it`s time I`ll take before I begin
Three sheets to the wind, Three sheets to the wind
. . .
Terrified of the open road
Yeah, where it leads ya never know
. . .
So you saved your shillins and your last six pence
Cause in God`s name they built a barbed wire fence
Be glad you sailed for a better day
But don`t forget there`ll be hell to pay

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So, I've been hanging out down by the train's despot. No, I don't ride, I just sit and watch the people there, and they remind me of windup cars in motion, the way the spin and turn and jockey for position's, and I want to scream out that is all is nonsense, your life's one track can't you see it's pointless. Just then my knees give under me, my head feels weak, and suddenly it's clear to see it's not them but me who's lost myself. I dare not be, as I hide behind these books I read while scribbling my poetry like art could save a wretch like me with some ideal ideology that no one could hope to achieve, and I'm never real, it's just a sketch in me, and everything I made is trite and cheap and a waist. Of paint. Of tape. Of time.

It's not as bad as all that, really.