Up from the abyss,
Leaning in,
For this,
Pressing against,
The precipice.
“Not quite,”
Walking the line,
Not going quietly,
But we never intersect,
Not that there wasn’t any interest,
Or an interception,
But unrequited I stay.
The end,
Becomes smaller,
Ever smaller,
Yet does not fade away.
If it takes two to tango,
Then I must be the hammer to your anvil,
The apple to your mango,
The pan to your handle.
You’re the pictures on my mantle,
The flaming wick in a candle,
The bones in my ankle.
The Vandals,
Have returned to wrangle,
And some things are scrambled,
Dismantled,
And trampled.
But let’s not untangle,
Over just one scandal,
We’re not in shambles,
And it would ruin the preamble.
Please,
Spare me the details,
Your verbosity,
Will only derail,
The course of the story.
Your memory will fail,
Halfway through the tale,
And it will all be gone with the wind.
In it’s place: an awkward laugh,
A mystified grumble,
Or even a comment about how old you’re getting.
You’ll wonder why your memory lapsed,
Though this is mere curiosity,
As you free-fall down the rabbit hole,
Stroking your chin,
At terminal velocity.
Eyes to the heavens,
You’ll see,
The entrance to the chasm,
Shrink,
Until,
It becomes a twinkling,
North Star,
Imposter.
You can do anything,
If you whittle it away,
Day by day.
To become dexterous,
First learn some points of reference.
Next,
Take these sections,
And test them,
Until perfected,
I.E. effortless.
You’ll earn precious interest,
And revel,
In new-found zealousness.
Depressions,
Tend to accrue,
Collections,
And internalize them,
Creating literal,
Littoral gray areas.
Still still,
In the sunlight-
It’s dappled surface,
Slightly evaporated.
It has no mind,
To receive,
What it holds,
But it still becomes,
A pastiche.
Upon inspection,
The surface of the murk,
Projects lurid reflections,
Where not enshrouded,
By leaves,
Or speckled,
By pebbles.
We played chicken,
Until the plot thickened,
There was some kicking,
And I was stricken,
And honestly sickened.
Then came the blowback,
And backlash,
Followed by attacks,
Without tact.
We acted,
Like brash asses,
In the pool,
But that’s no place for cruel fools,
Only honorable duels,
Which follow the rules.
Only with conviction
To consistent conventions,
Can Chicken be played.
It demands surgeon-like steady hands,
A strong stance,
And some symmetry,
Balance,
And good ground game.
Without those pieces,
The game ceases,
Animosity increases,
For no good reason.
The mushroom,
As it is known,
Is the tip of the fungal iceberg,
So to speak.
Beneath the fruiting body,
In the crux,
Is an interconnected,
Root and chute structure,
That undergirds,
The organism.
An unseen web,
Of white matter,
That provides a foundation.
A loose, scattered scaffold,
That aids the fungus in digestion.
In a superficially cerebral way,
Think of it like this:
The white matter,
In your brain,
Is a network,
Of axons,
That allows you to understand,
Various axioms,
And maxims,
And act on them.
You may not be aware of it,
Or scarcely know of such a thing,
But it’s presence is felt,
Nonetheless.
I sigh,
From where I lie,
Chin held high,
While my eyes imbibe,
The flowing sky,
And all is right.
It’s an unusually bright,
Afternoon,
Already.
Leaves of grass,
Are weaved,
Underneath,
My back-
My hair and clothing,
Have dandelion seeds,
Clinging to them.
“The garden returns,
The flowers bloom, the weeds rise,
All from the sun’s rays.”
I sit up,
And feel the light,
Caress my face,
Hit my hair,
Warm my shoulders.
“Hello, Sunshine!
I’m glad you’ve stopped by,
Thanks for everything.”
I’m pleased to announce that I’m the winner of Short Tale Shrew’s 2016 spring microfiction contest! You can visit their page by following the following link.
And be sure to follow them as well! There will be more contests, and they post excellent advice pertaining to short fiction writing.
Little things mean a lot,
Especially when they happen,
But sometimes it means more,
When they don’t.
The taste,
Of the empty space,
Where the once-whole,
Chocolate ice-cream scoop was.
The faint, jolting pangs of pain,
You feel,
A few seconds after,
The impact,
Of your pinky toe,
With a table leg.
When you find out,
That anticipated plans,
Made four days in advance,
To do nothing at all,
Are cancelled now.
You don’t live in fear,
Of good things gone bad,
Normally,
Because it should be no big deal,
Until it’s nothing at all,
Then it is.
The File Pile 