The culling ships came, and brought us deep, blue skies. Those who never saw them could not have suspected that the fast, mad machines were about to crash hard, as if on rocky shores, and no one would be left to tell our salty tale - except those azure skies.
The last lamp out dips the room into darkness [sudden darkness] and in the nothingness, before vague shapes form, a clunking sound triggers the stab of an adrenaline spike into ones chest -- mainlined frisson, or fright: the heart thumps, the chest cinches, the stomach lurches, breath is sipped spastically, and an involuntary noise escapes from some unnamed place within. The power of strange and startling thuds and whumps has fueled many a storybook, but though the mystery is rarely solved, we get over it soon enough.
The lonely lighthouse keeper, peering through a deep-set but narrow window at waves smashing onto the rocky shore, spouting upwards in a fanned geyser. So much depends upon his maintenance of momentum, but the better things go, the more dreadfully boring is life, and when things go poorly, there are russian roulette odds of tragedy. Like life on a mountain, but when someone crashes into the mountainside, the mountain-man is an unlikely participant in the tragedy.
ripples expand from some unseen center where a fish feeds, and when stillness returns i welcome its short life
I shambled out to watch the fine-fired light of some bright but distant star. The message in that moment was old news -- more than ancient & less than relevant, yet it was the only news on offer. If one traced that line of light back towards its source, one might find the source no longer existed, its last instant recorded in the caboose passage of light as it whizzed past.
a palm tree, like fireworks bursting, blocks sunset hues
i watch the drifting clouds and my mind synchs to their speed and i wonder whether i'm the cloud or the cloud is me and i know that i'm not moving and yet i feel i am and i know that i'm not weightless and yet i feel i am and i know i can't live aimlessly and yet i feel i can
There are those who hold marked places, and those whose place is in the sky. Most have long forgotten faces, and a few never said goodbye. There are those who rose in thick smoke, from fires whose flames were fanned by hand and cautiously, carefully stoked while, to the last coal, they were manned. There are those whose stones grew mossy - keepers now buried at their side. And those with headstones so glossy who've only just finished their ride. And all will vanish in due time, there's only the fortunes to say whose tales will be told at bedtimes, and who will vanish to smoke gray.
The world stands like a frozen waterfall, a river paralyzed, impossibly. And silence replaces its rushing call. In stillness, it spurns gabbling audibly. How can a cataract become so hush, its business being unceasing motion, spending its days, constantly in a rush, dispatching raindrops back to the ocean? Yet, now it's a tower - still as a stone - that looms like it's never known transience. Its icy curtain, hard as a shinbone, offers a wholly different ambience. I can see its beauty, but am still sad, thinking the falls should be beyond the fads.
The boulders' slothful migration inched them down the hillside. They moved so slow you'd never know they were in leaden landslide.
