Friday, October 26, 2012

It's a sonnet!



"Weltgeist"

You wake to a cold morning light, dull, frigid;
A pallor has crept around your visage.
The Ghost comes again, the world-spirit
Crashing down on you, I can still hear it
Draining, feeding, pulling from you your light.
Where has it gone? You always were so bright.
This world, this Ghost, has ever been a part
Of all our many lives, and from the start

It has been tearing us to shreds, but now
It is time to rise up, to fight the Ghost
And prove that we can survive and thrive, how
Powerful we can be, and as a host
Of humans, we must find the goodness, bow
To the moments that will never be lost.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Self-reflection


“A Man Converses with his Self.”
Mark sat down hesitantly, watching the other’s eyes follow his every move. He quickly scanned the strange room, discerning nothing more than the firm, oaken wood of the table and chairs. All about him was static, a blizzard of gray and white with a familiar hiss. He was deliberate in his movements, careful not to give anything away; shouldn't he know everything about himself? How poorly we understand ourselves when we get down to it.
“Umm, hey,” Mark’s voice cracked from the strain.
“Haven’t talked in a while have we?” he answered.
“I guess I've been a little busy.” Mark gripped the warm wood tightly.
“Too busy for your Self?”
Mark’s eyes quickly flicked down. He knew he was right, he hadn’t had a true thought from his own head in months. Who am I becoming? His brain was filled with the musings of a culture that places little value in its vessels. Mark noticed he was watching.
“I just have a lot going on. It’s hard being in the real world.”
“Oh I know, but that’s when you need me the most.”
“I think I can manage on my own here.”
Mark watched as he shook his head, a subtle tremor of disbelief and Self pity as his lips curled into a knowing smirk. He thought back to when he gave his Self up, to the instant he touched her hand. His wife never questioned why he stayed at work so late, never inquired as to where he went on his business trips. It was all a shadow of truth, a white elephant in the room. He could not bring himself to touch his wife any longer, because if he did his lives would cross, the thread unraveled.
He tried for months to work up the courage and come clean, but what could he say? Sorry is never enough. He lay on the side of the bed, unable to say he loved her. His family never believed in liars. He would sit at his desk and remember the life they had planned, a life he might still salvage. When his mistress would call he did not answer, not until after he left the office.
Mark expected a reaction when he told her, but he didn’t know what. She immediately excused herself from his presence, walked into the bathroom and smashed the mirror, promptly left the house and never turned back. He has not called her. Now when he thinks about the life they had planned he can no longer see anything but a broken mirror.
His mistress cried when he told her they were not going to see each other anymore, but he had nothing left to say. Mark was never one for tears. Why cry instead of doing something? Weakness was not something he could afford, not anymore.
He walked away and has not called her either.
“I can’t go back, it’s all so broken.”
“No one said you had to go back Mark. It’s time to move forward.”
“Where do I go from here?”
He watched as his Self gave a small laugh.
“You can start with me.”
It was simple enough to hear, but devastating to understand. Could it really be that easy? No, simple but not easy. Mark began to cry. The release he had denied for so long was upon him, and he didn’t want to give in to its embrace. He had refused to see the strength in weakness, the hope in fear, but this time was different. He felt his eyes upon him, but he continued to cry. It was as if he were a man dying of thirst given a drink: he took everything he could before it was taken away. Mark finally regained his composure enough to speak.
“There we are, it’s been a while since you cried.”
“You can’t tell me it’s that easy.”
“It’s not, but we’ll keep moving forward.”
Mark watched as his Self reached out his hand. It was time to sink or swim, but which is which?

Now and Forever

I stand out along the bluffs and the ocean beats across the rocks; in out in out in. The heartbeat of the earth. I feel her again, the waves pounding her memory into my head. The ocean beats its rhythm over and over, pulling me in. I fall, tumbling down to the rocks below. The journey down is a span of lifetimes as I am born again and again; in out in out in. I see the ocean’s foam. I see myself rising out like a god. I am eternal. We are all eternal. My head hits the rocks and my memories spill out, joining with the sea. 

Her crooked smile. 
Making breakfast. 
Watching her walk out the door. 
A woman begging for spare change.
A dog without someone to hold his leash.
A funeral of somebody I used to know.
My parents arguing before the car hits us.
Our wedding day that would never be, a fragment of a dream.
The other man.
My first bicycle.

Realizing that she is the only one that I could ever possibly love, without knowing how I could love her.
Watching the news detail their plane crash "an unfortunate accident."

I snap back to reality. My foot is hanging over the edge, poised between now and forever as the world holds its breath. I step away from the bluffs and the ocean beats across the rocks; in out in out in.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Monsters


This idea cam,e up when I was watching all the sad social media posts at night and wondering why they always start being posted at midnight or so. Why late at night instead of during the day?

Night time is when the monsters come out. They’re big and frightening, their long sharp claws gleam red in the moonlight. Some are covered in fur, some scaly. Each monster is unlike the other, except for their hunger. They prowl the town, swallowing people whole. They don’t leave anyone unscathed, and they never get full.
Night time is when the monsters come out. I see them when I’m brave enough to look. They slink across the streets; their tails are swishing back and forth. Their mouths drip with saliva, waiting hungrily for their next meal. They growl and grunt, hack and cough, spit and curse. I shake as I watch them hunt, as I watch the people ground to bits between the monsters’ powerful jaws.
Night time is when the monsters come out. They lurk in the shadows, waiting for someone to drop their guard. They know how to hunt us. They know how to kill us.
 Night time is when the monsters come out. The monsters live inside us. Doubt, fear, jealousy, pain, anger, shame, rage, despair; these are our monsters. We sit and think and begin to questions ourselves, our souls. The Abyss climbs out and shows us everything we never wanted to see. The monsters are inside us. They feed off our doubt, fear, jealousy, pain, anger, shame, rage, despair. We grow weaker as they grow stronger, and they eat us alive.
Night time is when the monsters come out. The monsters live inside us, how can we shut them out?

Thursday, October 18, 2012

just a start?


Michael Carrington walked the lonely streets, rifle slung firmly around his shoulder. His boots pounded a staccato beat, the only sound for blocks. It was a ruined city filled with ruined people, a canvas displaying the true nature of these boys turned men. Bullet holes peppered the walls, a tangible reminder of the anger that perforated the city. He stopped at the school. The entire building had been blasted apart, words he could not understand danced behind his eyelids.

He was walking through the city when he came upon an enemy soldier, wounded and lying in the street. He watched as the man’s life bubbled out of him in great gasps of pain. He could smell the burnt flesh where a grenade had opened his gut. He watched as the dying man's' blood gurgled out of him, and all Michael could think of was a bottle of champagne being opened. He tried to hate the man but couldn't; everyone feels pain.  His hands trembled as he brought his rifle to bear, his stomach churning. The injured man gave a great moan, a cry of some type. A terrible grin stretched across his face, engulfing his visage. He began to laugh, a laugh that left the man shaking as if from cold. Michael couldn't breathe, he felt as if all the air around him had been sucked out of his lungs. This corpse kept staring at him, the eyes boring into him, his soul. He had to close those eyes, before they became his own. He squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, echoing off the ruined walls of the city. Michael turned and vomited, leaving the grinning corpse behind him.


As he walked he heard the muffled sound of sobbing; a child’s voice. He rushed to the spot, hoping to help the child. She sat in a ruined house, her yellow dress, bright as a canary, the only point of color in the gray landscape. He walked towards her, hands out and nonthreatening. She cried out in a language he did not know. She hid behind a grandfather clock, trembling like an animal. He held out his hand to her, just waiting. He could not move.

"How can I take her with me? What relief will I give her, I'm a killer not a father. I would be sentencing her to death, not life."

She tentatively reached out to him. He looked in her eyes and saw himself; he didn't see what he thought he would. He saw a thin, haggard man on the verge of tears. A man that needed someone just as much as she needed him. As he took her hand she began to cry. He held her close, two ruined people in a ruined city. They cried together, sharing their pain and relief. When he finally stopped crying, he rose up and took her by the hand.
“Come on little canary, let’s go.”