Patterns of the Sand and the Sea

No longer a he, it wandered the world
Observing the growth of shrubs in precarious sequence
So many things narrowly avoided death
3% was a glorious dimension where anything could happen

It didn’t want to say anything
To alert them to hidden patterns and possibilities
Talking was a thing of the past
Communication too

The sand turned into miniature golden tornadoes
But that wasn’t enough
Everything persisted and became stale
It decided to take matters into its own hands
To dive into the sea
Rusting like a fucking bucket

Schools of fish ignored him
Sharks sniffed cautiously before turning skittish
And fleeing
They sensed there was something predatory about the thing
It saw death but was never granted it

But soon it would rust
And all those sad possibilities wouldn’t reach even his metal brain


Stalactite fury

It seemed dangerous
Death wouldn’t throw stone knives
At you from above
That would be inappropriate
It can’t have a media spectacle
Too much attention
Attention was deadly

Then death itself might be wiped out
Or at least be an endangered species
Threatened to within an inch of its life

Better to stick to the tried and true
Down here among the shadows and torchlight
With wary subterranean citizens thinking of you
As a vague possibility at best
A concrete certainty to befall others at worst
This is good
This is very good


So much going on there
Too soon to go back
To the pressures, the grind
The dull walls of the present

This is much better
Green mixes with dead leaves
A celestial grey hat goes on forever
But the neighborhood does too
Constantly changing but retaining the same shape
The people smile and nod, offering candy and oblong cakes
It wasn’t Halloween either, your neighbor just did that back then

The holiday for grinning beasts was coming up, though
And the possibilities for it stretched on, like the gray hat with robust clouds
Hollowed out pumpkins waited to be filled with substance again
Some temporary flickering light
Or a flaming bag of poop

Wasn’t time for that yet
Just a few more weeks before all hell would take the earth back
Until then
At least that corpse-colored sheet above was a portent of nature
Letting its hair down


A Sleepy Life


The afternoon nap sets in for the long haul
Gettin comfortable
But still razor sharp
And ready for anything

Hearts slow down
Heat ramps up
Humidity takes without asking
Vegetation grows
Choosing green to represent it
Buildings decay and spread out
Leaking and being joyous
Relaxing for an hour or two

But there’s a human side to the town
Nestled between mountainous courage
Sleeping idols sleep their dreams away
A few ambitious people stroll the cobblestone walks
Gazing at other ghosts like themselves
Stopping to purchase flowers or to ponder what the sea killed that day

Hearts give off a smell too
A whiff of pennies drifts toward the salty sea
He was going to pull the trigger that day
Except the penny thing threw him off
The atmosphere went from all right to all wrong
Now he stands wondering what he’ll eat for lunch
Maybe the vendor down the street is still open
Fish or chicken?

Those damn existential questions

A little bit of Manchester


A comforting life along the shore
Not dull at all
Just enough novelty to feel fresh and alive
There’s a butcher eyeing a prime cut of beef
As if a deeper metallic value hides within

An accountant is honest on his taxes
And orders the swordfish
Only to send it back and ask for the oatmeal

A woman walks by
An entourage in tow
She gestures with a quick hand
And the rough looking crew gets to work
The lights turn off
Gasps and whispers

But the restaurant is just changing hands
“I’m sorry sir, we don’t carry the oatmeal anymore”
“Breakfast at all?”
“No, ‘fraid not”
“Just something extra salty. Anything, really.”

A boar’s head is brought out in flickering candlelight.
It was the accountant’s birthday.


Metallic Trees Bloom (excerpt #1)

Here is an excerpt from my questionable freshmen effort Metallic Trees Bloom. 


It takes several moments for the dust to settle.  The three of you look like archeological finds of a defeated dynasty.  

It’s not long before your sad, wonderfully preserved faces twist into activity once more.  Dante is the first to stand up and frantically brush off that clinging layer of dust. You and Sixta clumsily follow suit, awkward follow-ups to the ex-patriot’s graceful movements.  The three of you oscillate your heads, scanning your environment with welcome confusion.  


Thought the plot was fairly irredeemable, but some of the word choice might have been okay, if a little pedantic in places. Let me know what you think.