Feet spread wide. Knees bent. Anchored on a sprung floor Worn black leather Wrapped around A rust-speckled hilt,
Loved And Lost
A heart beat is all that separates us from death. Life in the blood. The dance that is cells through veins Sometimes you don’t feel sparks
A love letter to myself:
If you don’t love me As much as I love me You aren’t worth my time. At least that’s what I tell people to explain why I’m single.
Sing me a requiem For the words will be better than mine. Disjointed, unpolished, but all I knew Grief is funny It’s flashes of synchronicity between heart and mind.
The city streets aren’t safe to take anymore, not since Jericho instituted The Movement. After the virtualization of nature, the population of the world became less forgiving of those who existed outside. The homeless, both animal and human, now suffer sever abuses within cities. The most recent governor of Jericho, thinking she looked powerful in glasses that are to square for her prominent nose and chin, stipulated that all open ground will, from that point on, be covered in steel spikes that run in neat diagonal lines barely allowing a foot of empty space between them. The morning after the announcement, the sun had just touched the top of the buildings when olive green clothed construction crews were out with huge industrial spike guns. I watched from my apartment window on the 15th floor as they zigzagged in tight lines, sending meter long spikes into concrete, never to be pulled out again. It’s been twenty years since they were drilled in and there is no talk of them ever being pulled out.
My Aunt Bea was resolute at my uncle’s funeral. Her black skirt suit pressed and showed no trace of lint with a lilac kerchief in every pocket. She didn’t wear any of the broaches my Uncle Bob had gotten her, nor did she go into the room for the wake. Instead she stayed with my brother and I, in the deep green sitting room downstairs, you could just see the white banister that lead to the viewing room from the couch we were all cuddled on.
Peace is a little found commodity. Something that can no longer be bought from a dispensary. Humanity now barred from the potential of pure peace doesn’t sit well. The anxiety not knowing when or how death shall come seeps into the air. Instead of dwelling on the grey nearing death, they fixate on coloring their lives with how much they can do in their years. How many places can they live? How many people can they know? Their sense of self directly related to how many names and numbers are stored in electronic directories. Screens and projections full of relationships they are supposed to bring color and vibrancy to a life that is mostly spent behind doors, locked away from sunlight and natural colors. It’s a physical thrum constantly buzzing through air ways and to-connected bodies.
The idea that we Are fossils of our own Experiences sinks Into my brain. Like the bones, Of my younger self, Are just lying under