Farm Flight

The days of August had been long, and filled the air with a smoky haze that weighed heavily in my lungs. There was no reprieve from the beating of my heart, no respite from the thundering in my skull. All the words that had been spoken between us burned through my memories like the summer wildfires that transformed the sun and moon into deep and ominous vermilion. I walked from the beach, avoiding any reference to my compass, which knew only direction and not velocity.

Every furtive glance we exposed gave a new and deleterious meaning to your kindnesses. I know you thought less of me than you meant to, and more of me than I expected. I know this because the soul knows things that the body cannot begin to explain for fear of pain and suffering. The dreams of summer were ending, and I needed to forge my own path towards the waking of winter, when words mean nothing anyway.

Feels Plus Two

It was sunset, and the cake said eat me. I only meant to satiate my thundering stomach when I felt the horizon wrap its teeth around me in karmic vengeance, engulfing me in its infinity. From the spot where I thought my feet were planted, a hot and heavy breath rushes to fill my tattered sails with words better left to hushed midnight conversations.

I’ll spare you the details because I’m sure you’ve heard it before. A program meant to self-destruct before launch day, afraid of its own IPO. A button pushed by a hand that could never shake another in earnest again. A reflection that refused to open its eyes, fearful of its own powerlessness over the heavy chains of fate.

And yet there they were, floating in and out of existence, merrily marching along to the tune of a whimsical drummer. Mouths wrested from resting position to shine pearly lights onto the clouds ahead. Feathered rings on a milky sphere pulsing against an orifice thirsty for photons, a storm darting between fleshly flaps that forged paths through and away. A wrinkled platform, bony on one side and soft on another from which emerges segmented tendrils wrapped in skin and hair and further tendrils stem with more capped by a single shiny scale emerged, gripping and pulling and twisting the landscape to prepare for the greatest escape.


I'm so used to looking in I can't even tell I'm inside out. What did I expect? How do I break the cycle?

What is Happening RN

You've made your bed, and now it beckons me with curling tentacles to lay face down in its wrinkled recesses. Your hand stretches out and I am met with the a palm that asks my lips to delay their attempts to close the gaps between our shining faces. I put on my running shoes and open the door to the indefinite certainty of solitude but I remember the RSVP you placed on my knee with whispering looks that hinted at a less lonely peace and it threatens to blow away in my wake and take with it all the loveliness I could ever hope you'd offer. I can see the sharp ends of a beak that has eaten lesser men, and probably better ones, and at once a bravery descends up on my heart that terrifies me, and I am tempted to halt its spread through my nerves. The icy globes you use to drink in my yearning gaze are scanning my smiles and I'm not sure if there's an elaborate feast being cooked up behind the curtains or if you're as drunk as I am. The morning sun sheds light on questions I forgot I was clutching, fracturing them into moments of shame I could never hope to return if I let them slip past my teeth. You have no obligations, even to the ragged orbit of sleep we circle through, and the lowly I deserves nothing more than that from your midnight sun.