creative writing

Generation Loss

Standard

Forgery begets forgery,

begets forgery,

to the point that

even the watchful eye begins

to doubt itself.

Infinite renewal is not

continuous preservation —

what we forget accrues

and crystallizes.

The patina looms

the colors wash-out

and dry-up,

leaving behind bleached bones

and shadows.

Gaps grow

into gorges,

cleaved apart by

refrozen murk.

Even garbled noise and static,

is buffed away

by graininess.

The record becomes the message.

If you wanted to see it so bad,

you should have been there

when it happened.

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Feedback Loops

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It happened again.

When you can’t undo

you can retrace your steps.

“Walk me through it,”

you hear from right behind you,

it was your own tail insisting.

But your directions

fall on deaf ears –

your great fear

is that you’ve now

lost your place.

But it’s right

under your nose,

tantalizingly close —

I know that feeling well.

“What are you not getting?”

It’s always a game of catch-up

or keep away.

Maybe you can tell,

I don’t have all the answers,

I thought I’d been

making waves,

but all I’ve done is dig ruts

and kick-up dust.

Let’s try again.

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Sleep Paralysis

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Hazey under indigo light.

The most I can say

is that I’m in my own space

under my duvet.

Short on details,

I get a line of sight

from the corner.

Someone’s just standing by the closet.

I want to say anything

but I rouse no sound.

The figure shuffles,

mumbles and begins to take one

belabored step

towards me.

I want to get out,

but my muscles barely twitch.

As it’s foot hits the ground,

it bounds over my head

like a tiger.

I want to close my eyes,

but I’m transfixed.

I come to

and it’s 5:18 AM.

Sleeping sure does

take a lot out of you.

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Defenestration

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This has gotten out of hand.

It’s not the way,

I would’ve planned,

to make an exit. 

Angry crowds coalescing,

twelve stories below

expressing discontent.

Maybe 

I’ll catch an updraft

and glide away.

Maybe I’ll land

on all fours, catlike.

But they know my name,

they’ll give chase

with pitchforks and pikes.

This is getting out of hand.

Maybe they’ll leave the back door

unlocked for me,

or I’ll end up in the moat.

I sure hope so.

It’s my turn already?

This is getting out of hand,

I don’t know where I’ll land,

this might get a little

uncomfortable.

Trash Compactor

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Only with destruction

am I preserved

for time

immemorial.

Every straggler

and bedraggled castaway

congregated —

a formation,

a phalanx

of immovable objects

loitering.

The hangers-on

hanging out

a little too close for

your comfort —

sorry for any inconvenience.

But we were pressed to this,

left to our own

devices.

We’re just like-minded

and fit together

so perfectly,

with a little coaxing.

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Fog Lights

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The rift extends over the horizon

and all around me

are shades and shapes

indistinct.

Soft hums

of far-off chimeras

echo in the distance.

The river of asphalt,

completely still

yet winds snake-like.

Pass the torch.

With the flick of a switch,

cast away the mist.

Burn it all off,

scatter the wolves,

the bandits

and the cockroaches.

Every puddle, pothole,

and patch of black-ice

exposed.

Every wayward wanderer,

given fair-warning

of approach.

Come with me,

I will forge

a path.

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Motion Sickness

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Through no fault of your own,

you appear to be oscillating.

It truly is a terrible state of affairs

to never quite get your bearings,

my condolences.

They say, in due time,

you will sprout sea legs —

but even then

I’d probably end up with

two left-flippers.

Half-past 10

and I’m hugging the mast,

spiralling,

spiralling.

Let’s get down to brass tacks,

I’m about to spill my guts out.

I, sea cucumber,

have gone fishing

with my good chums —

but all I caught was nausea.

Ho-hum.

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Obstructions

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Sliding down the oil slick,

slaloming between caltrops,

backpedaling in vain.

Somehow, some way

we always find ourselves

in new gauntlets.

The labyrinth,

convoluted infinite fortress,

perfectly designed for long walks.

Follow the thread,

listen for the echos.

The more you pull away,

sometimes,

the more it drags you in.

You can’t fault the bull

for trying to exit

the China shop

according to his nature.

Let him blow off some steam,

if he needs —

then put it on his bill

later.

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Through The Prism

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With every matter of perspective,

we must take into account

the beholder and

the contours of their mind’s eye.

The way the light refracts

is a matter of the tool used

and what we project.

Conclusions drawn from

kaleidoscopes are more colorful,

to be sure,

but how much is just distortion?

Does the pair of binoculars

miss the forest for the trees?

Beams need not

be straight like arrows,

they curve,

pitch,

yaw and bloom

on their way.

Everything that’s absorbed,

is obscured —

only what returns to our vantage point

is what we remember.

Our minds,

starved for stimulus,

scrounge for the scraps and

fill in the blind spots

where our retinas are.

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Traces

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The loose change

from the time I’ve spent,

often falls out of my pocket —

landing on the sidewalk,

slipping between the cracks.

The things I’ve said,

for real or in jest,

left behind their residue,

whether I recall or not.

Those moments never left,

but for one reason or another,

didn’t stick with me.

Do we know

how much of our live’s,

fall down the memory hole?

Consult the hourglass.

I have to ask,

can I take some sand back?

Every spare moment

sloughed-off and discarded,

like old clothes,

like dust.

Where does the time go?

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