Stream of Consciousness
A Piece in The Stillness
What is the best way to go about it, do you think? Pull up the remains and create some space? At least for a few of us to get together and share a meal. Enough room to trade perspectives. Enough to cross your legs. To stretch your body out and pretend. Tilt your head back. Keep your warmth on your own skin. Not so much as to create a distance. As to let a thought linger in the middle, dust and breath halfway too far for anything. To cause a stillness born from lacking. A space wide enough for a body. Don’t forget, we’re the ones who made it ours. We’re the ones who cleared it out. The ones who thought and decided, this space could be enough, not so much. Not so much. Not much, enough. The best way to go about it, I think, is to save a piece in the stillness. Enough to acknowledge, not so much as to give pause. Something in the middle, too far to touch. A thought. A stretch. Create just enough space around the edges. Enough to share something, enough to grow outside of it. About, around, beside, within.
By Olivia Dodgeabout 4 hours ago in Poets
Empty Space
When she birthed kids and wrapped herself around them, I got empty space I was a forgotten blip in time My being was erased, and she filled the space, my old space , with new neighbors, cookie parties, and church I found there was no room at the inn, just a gap as wide as the states stretch I have holes that memories don’t quite fill, because they aren’t alive, like hugs and smiles, or a freshly baked cookie dunked in creamy coffee, at a kitchen table covered in her hand-sewn tablecloth A photo every few years mailed helter-skelter, perhaps appearing at Christmas – or A quick note to give voice to the fulfillments in her life, a short note to family-brag filled with words, but the empty spaces of what isn’t said, shouted louder. So, it is done. A memory hole deeper than the ocean, of some long-ago times but really a deep and empty gulley of what could have been.
By Andrea Corwin about 23 hours ago in Poets
Tempest's Bane
A tropical storm that was once a hurricane roils over the land like a hand swiping hair strands across the scalp, parting slanting trees to one side to scratch an itch. Walls press in and restless thoughts and organs blame themselves for fog and ineffectual desires and self-destructive desires, and ineffectual, self-destructive desires. I have plenty of candles and batteries. Friends lose power. I invite them over but no one comes. Jupiter is the closest to Earth now than it will be again for 59 more years. So bright each night that it trumps the North Star as Saturn looks on wantonly. Mercury steps back to watch Enlil spread laced fingers, hears him laugh
By Kate Kastelberg a day ago in Poets
First Case of the Meaning of Life Scavenger Hunt
The Revamp. ……We call them Vessels. Naked, something called alive, and a putridly high sense of self-importance from the factory, blemish here and there—what? That’s called acne. Mind the sugar, but aren’t they just the most adorable? Travels heavy and light, sights are outsourced, receipts in the docket, yet try this--*flick. Fucking blind as a bat. Forever shifting foci built into the programmable features. Nose bleeders should avoid the bleachers. Does, technically, mean they could accidentally rip an earth in two all over a new enemy to ruin. Fluid-powered, nuanced thinkers, if they choose, wink, wink, nudge return to the menus of the startup screen for their shrug-and-go autopilot system. Keep it under the right threshold, and they’ll never be more than partially aware. Means reflexes will feel like personality traits; let it ride. Again, some may rise; besides the physical, it’s just a miserable attic-dweller simulation of half-baked logic loops, and it kills itself trying to escape the crucible—and they’re gone. See?
By Willem Indigo2 days ago in Poets
