scribbledshadows

Words. Lots of Words.

Skeins — May 11, 2016

Skeins


I am unwravelling

the empty spaces

growing larger

 

the atoms floating apart

 

slipping through the timestream

of the infinities between here and

there.

 

I must weave them back together,

hands bleeding over the silk from the cuts

of passing. Like her hands in the nettles

for their sweaters.

 

but I have no brothers to save.

only the puzzle of the threads

the correct branch to take

the right stitch to use

 

to stave off the entropy,

the moment, where I come apart

faster than I make myself.

Waterstains —

Waterstains


Did the heart go first,

or last?

 

Did I only now just

find the puddle

the melted dagger-

 

or have I been dragging around the water,

bleeding these months away?

~~~

coming home brings no joy

the ghost’s chains rattle

and I remember

 

we are both bound by them,

my skin will not forget their feel.

The wind will blow, and they will sound like wind chimes.

The house will still feel haunted.

~~~

I have ruined my nails

and my sleep, and my appetite

and the vision of a predictable future.

 

I have a hole in my heart

and the hunger birds have come.

 

 

 

Normative Ethics — April 6, 2016

Normative Ethics


An Ought, is a very heavy kind of thing.

 

It follows you, ball and chain,

stands on your shoulder with wings

light as air and knocks you down

half-moon, bent knees.

 

It in itself, is followed

over and over by the next

Ought. Standing each upon the other

built, up, supported by the limbs from their bodies

up, and up, in interlocking rungs.

 

Until there is the sky, and you

cannot see the Oughts anymore,

and so you wonder, what they look like

all the way up there.

 

The sky would be a nice kind of thing

to touch, and if you knew what it looked like

all the way up top, perhaps it would not be so

heavy.

Generational Violences — February 18, 2016

Generational Violences


The stories we heard were only half-told.

 

And now, we are left

to reconstruct old wars

from their aftershocks.

 

To piece together histories

that were never written down

that make myths of the present.

 

We work, with the tools of our archaeology

-we learn to not dismiss the dust

because we never made it a pharmaceutical,

because we don’t have the language to differentiate

the soil from the silt.

 

We try to make old battlefields bloom,

we water them with the blood of our guilt.

 

We make new stories,

about the aftershocks of war,

fight over their meanings.

 

We fail, to ask them for their old stories

the ones that were never written down.

 

Storytimes — December 9, 2015

Storytimes


There have been a thousand nights.

A thousand ‘not tonight’s’.

.

A thousand mornings you have

not chopped off my head.

A thousand mornings I have

kept it.

.

I have told myself a thousand stories

so that I will not have to fear

the tomorrows

.

will not have to wonder, when it will come.

.

There have been a thousand mornings

where you have seen only your own

hurt

.

instead of your woman-less country,

the suffering, the daughters

you killed.

.

We have crafted thousands

of words together, you have

made me a thousand promises

.

Maybe they will come true,

tomorrow.

.

 

Unsaid, Unfinished —

Unsaid, Unfinished


I live with a ghost.

.

I let him in the front door,

second-hand sadness and all.

.

You can see him

-in the smoke curling off the stove,

the steam in the bathroom.

.

He leaves whispers on my cheek

-names of people long dead,

love letters long forgotten,

wars long past.

.

When he leaves the house feels empty.

.

I leave out drops of milk on windowsills,

fancy undergarments across the floor.

.

“There is life and vitality here for you!”

I shout, if only you would stay.

.

Caverns open up inside of me.

As though I am the ghost

-waiting for blood and water to flood back into me

along with the rush of his shadow.

.

I hear knocks, and I twitch.

I hear whispers, and I swoon.

.

The old house creaks with me,

like it misses him in its bones too.

.

I would let him in again.

Second-hand sadness and all.

I miss the whispers and old stories.

I miss the smell of death.

 

 

Prior — November 3, 2015

Prior


We are reaching for something beyond us,

calling out to the mother-void;

knowledge before language,

gods before men.

.

“recognize My honor,

My valor, My struggle,

I found the true thing

I had no need of mortal womb

or breath, or touch, or speech

to know this truth.”

Visions — May 2, 2015

Visions


I want them empty,

but they are full.

I want a lack of lines

.

Space, to roam in curves,

a world that does not

incite these kind of angry tears.

.

A world where we do not

make places for people

.

all mapped out roadways

and jurisdictions and over used tropes

and zoning houses and business

alike.

.

I want a place where my kind

was not cut from a rib

was not laid over the image of earth

.

to likewise be pillaged and raped.

.

A place where I am empty,

and my emptiness is without

further meaning.

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