The Devoted Few of the Magnetic Cushion

 

   In the turquoise infused early evening before the crickets could take over the wavelengths with their comforting ripples of sussuration cascading in and out among the gently forested blocks of a city who'd forgotten its insectoid sisters-in-law of the olden order and age, lost so long ago in the fading mists of history, the turning of the page had been forgotten by the most stalwart among them who yet remember the vivid horrors of that night.  

   In the darkened glows of the deep recessed forested alleyway there came unguent shapeless beckonings on the the crawl from the shadowy corners. In a sisterly slanted murmuring constituent of unexpected consent, the separation tendencies of suddenly swiveling magnetic frequencies align themselves into repellant platforms of anti-gravity thrust away from each other's offending onset. A mutually beneficial exclusion concurrent with their mirrored desires for survival. 

   The devoted few stood still in the gathering darkness incurred by a swath of dark gray clouds smudging over the gibbous moon on a sudden updraft in the wind. 

Starcomb

You must clutch the leather 

sagging below the waterline.

Trees don't matter to the ragworts of industry. 

Handle the ruptured portions with care.

Celestial bankruptcies repair themselves, 

but we are not certain about tigers. 

There's a common time of day

when the professors all align

themselves into a new formation

heralding the Coventry of the reborn. 

Stranded gravitational ribbons loosely

bound in the wakes of passing stars 

found drifting too far off course by

the latter day sanitation workers

are collected into lambent energy bytes

on leave to orbital docking upon 

any issues derived from nomenclature

on up the ladder of opportunity 

as they said in the orrery at the top

of the winding staircase down

in the darkness of the cellar dropped

creeping up an inch on us every day.

Harlequin Symphonies

 Once the mist became disregarded

and the chill dissipated just a bit

The quiet grew to engulf us

Homed in on as the target

We listened on in silence

To the quiet of the wind

As it whispered softly

Reminder of a friend

refreshing memory

courtesy of nothing 

blessed be the drifter

cascading symphonies 

filling honey in their drums 

harvesting the slumber of the sun

for a future devastation of the dream

outgoing transmon

we have no knowledge of a transmission other than the one
penetrating  our airspace now

This is a screenshot while listening to Thrasher. We're in the immolation now, deep beneath its reeking waters on the verge of boiling over with the seething filth of millions in disarray. 

Occupancy becomes maximized by opportunities. Suffice it to say the Irradiated Way lights corners black and twisted enough as to appear to be staircases winding down into the darkness of the cellar.

Fishmas Tree

 

Dream and Day

The difference between a star and the Sun.
All of them are long gone dead except one.
Even the nearest ones just out of our reach
are on the fast track slipping into death's lane.
Just behind us in line it will be our turn next. 
On whose shores will the echoes of our radiance
appear upon and on the surface of whose eyes
will the image of our light continue to shine? 

But what if we could teleport in an instant 
to any distant star and see through the eyes
of each other? Receive the impressions of who
we are and what we each feel and experience.
No matter how strange and far it may seem
we have nothing to really fear past the fence 
except our own expectation of willful ignorance.
The sun comprises nearly 99 percent of the mass
of the total solar system covering a terrain 
that is an astonishing distance from the Sun. 

     Amid sinister hissing whispers heard in the gloaming under the lunar tides of night did I step as quietly as I could manage into the small grove of slender trees isolated up the trail of the canyon.
The moonlit glare cast a feeling of cold foreboding on the scene. It enhanced the idea we weren't even there. Since we couldn't see ourselves, and there was no one else around to be seen, we were the ghosts. This apparent truth never becomes fully realized until the day we die.

     That is the day we first begin to become just a memory of a ghost. There's nothing left to haunt us after that. This is the hardest lesson to remember. We can only ever do the haunting while we're alive. Human beings alive and well are the very definition of a ghost. There's no one left to remember them. Being haunted is just getting reminded you were once alive yourself. If you have a thought you are being haunted.

     These words represent the thinking of a dead person. They are haunting you in a state of full blown possession. The only known effective exorcism is to stop reading this. By then of course, it is far too late. The human mind absorbs the memory of what it has read. Such is the power of language and the shape of words. Weaving a binding spell on generations of readers. Sustaining a symphonic crescendo due to break on the rocks of twilight any day now.

     The hooting of an owl in the dark recesses emerged spookily from the shadows of the looming forest. For the first time I recognized it as an invitation or a request to step forth and enter its domain. The twinned image of the moon reflected in both of its wide open eyes.