A prayer was made at the altar -- a prayer no one could hear. A sacrifice had been promised of someone all held dear. But not one soul would take the knife, and do the wicked deed: to take that life, an unearned life and speak the evil creed. They dragged the victim to the rim of an old volcano. Just one kick would be all it took; still, they all said, "Hell no!" What kind of beastly deity could fault them for failing? The kind whose sense of right and wrong is fucked beyond ailing.
in winter, frangipanis stand bare, bracketing the shrine
the crunchy snow of a cold winter's eve -- tomorrow's gray slush
nordic summer. the wee hours look like either sunrise or sunset is upon us, and either way, it's true
two street puppies: one with laser-like focus, one oblivious
One false footing erases the screeched blackboard writing that'd formed in my mind & everything becomes a blank, white emptiness -- Not a good empty. Not a good quiet. The emptiness of blinding pain. That's the slow, cold death of falling into a drift and then cascading, tumbling, tumbling, in an avalanche. Wrenched asunder - or so it feels - and left to go numb in a silence so total that i know it's my first experience with true silence. We all fall down? That's what the plague rhyme says, isn't it? -- Madmen & Holymen, and those who take this fall and are twisted into a grotesque blend of both. Which way is up? Tiny seedlings can tell, but I cannot. I'm lost -- 50/50, I dig myself deeper into my own doom. My life trickles in a file of hours, dripping into that dim distance of non-time. I'll stay lost until the spring thaw when I'll ride the glacial runoff to complete my tumble as a gray and bloated thing.
We've reached the place where screams aren't heard. You'd think they'd build into a din, but one can't grasp a single word. It has become silent as sin. The angry words are shot to black - that inky void that's unpatrolled, It's silent, yet all're struck by flak. Still, no one admits being sold. But each life 's a product consumed. They wail away the night and day, pretending they're not rightly doomed. Some will say that it's here to stay... True, but are we?
sun-warmed rooftop, clouds down in the valley -- i breathe in bright heights
trees stand straight in the woods they call "haunted;" all i see are trees, but maybe they're ghost trees and I see nothing at all
a colorful town - no beige, gray, or brown - flows wide flows river-like down that soft, rolling moun- tain side watching sun go down from the old playground, i slide
Tiger Riding for Beginners 