Tag Archives: writing

“I Love You Dark”

My love’s not pure nor glorious as the day
As dark and coarse as skin is fair and bright
It shines, but without light to guide its way
Not holy or of perfect, lacy white
It clads itself in simple, dirty scabs
In scars and bone and curling, muddy hair
My pulse it quickens and my hear it grabs
Without decorum, rules, or playing fair
As old as earth, as dark as dawn is light
It twists and writhes; it shudders like the frost
My love is neither perfect nor alright
But hard and dark and all too eas’ly lost
My love is simply man and shades of skin
So dark they mold this golden heart within

M.
May 13/15

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The God Beneath

I am a nation. I am the fabric of pride, nationalism, and community. Rippling in the breeze, the heavy folds of cloth remind me of my importance, the fact that no expense is spared in me, and no sky is above my conquering gaze.

I fly. The gentle wind lifts me and the shining sun casts my shadow down below, where among heaps of fallen bricks the ants run around in a frenzy. I can hear snatches of conversation from them.

“Left my textbook in the math hall,” they say.

“Wonder if she’ll go with me,” they say.

I neither care nor understand.

Each day I guard the ants and make their courage rise up in their chests, make their feet run faster, and make the day so much brighter. In red and blue glory, I watch their meager attempts, their futile squabbles and short-lived victories. I am timeless.

Each evening I sink with the sun, coaxed downwards by the gentle slap of rope against pole, folded like a child, and carried to a boxed bed of finest silk like the treasure I am. Each evening my stars lie folded, and I die – and in the morning I rise again, the first to wake. Drawn aloft by the threads of spider’s silk, newly coated with dew, I come to watch again over the bustling anthill of mankind.

I am timeless. I have existed as long as I can remember, which must be a very long time indeed. No one has come before me, and no one would dare follow. The ants, however, aren’t timeless at all. They come and go, and when they go I am sure they die.

“The flag’s getting a worn patch,” they say.

“I’m so screwed for that English final,” they say.

“Look into getting a new one,” they say. “The pride of America.”

I am right, see? They leave and when they leave, they die. That is what they say. The word America means death, or maybe heaven, I think. At least, that is what I’ve discovered.

This is a day like every other day, except that I do a thing I’ve never done before. I have experienced all, and yet today I do the thing I’ve never done before: I touch The God Beneath.

The God Beneath is big, and it is mottled. It is the only thing bigger than myself, because so matter how far I stretch, my folds of painted skin can never quite obscure it completely, whereas the ants are blocked out easily.

The God Beneath is something beyond me, something too vast for me, but today, as I am gently drawn down towards it to be put away, it rises up to meet me.

I don’t quite know what happens.

“Don’t let it slip-” says a voice.

“You’re letting go,” replies a second voice.

They are loud voices, much louder down here than when I am flying above them. My ant servants hold me gently, but I tip, and the God Beneath jumps up and grabs hold of one of my corners – the one that’s blue with a star in it.

The exhilaration is too much. I am flushed beyond comprehension, alive with the fire of a presence so much bigger and more important than myself. I’ve never felt this before. It feels like ice so hot it burns me up, and I feel this so strongly that the flames spring from my imagination and suddenly coat me in a fire feeding hungrily on my red and blue flesh.

“Well, it was getting worn anyways,” says the first voice.

“Shouldn’t have dropped it though. Shame we have to burn it,” says the second.

The Flames consume me, and before I pass into America, the last thing I feel is the God Beneath embracing me.

M.
Jun 2015
photo credits: http://ilimage.com/american-flag-2/

Fame

Listen to this story, children
This riddle:

They stake their lives
On crowds and soft cries
Put their hands on the line
Wait for the train
As the train tracks
Are a line in a line
A line within a line, I said

Guess their names, child
What are their names?
No one knows, which is sad
But the secret is
I know it of the train:
“Rumble”

Soft cries, crowds, I said
They cheer either side
Though the stakes are high
“The train is coming!”
Wild they stand and scream
For either side at the end

Screams, I said
Though I cannot describe
Those horrible screams on their faces
While blood
In thick streams
Runs down the iron rails
Sound fades
As the train Rumbles away

And the lull lasts
When the train has passed
Their hands, bruised and swollen
Lie broken and unmoving, mostly
While some are gone

“Thank you
For the sacrifice –
I know you lost and I know who won
We cheer for the train now
But thank you for the show
We bandage your hands
With kisses before you go
And I say
We salute the loss.”
They said. “We salute the loss.”

But children, know their names –
Children know my name
And remember this story
For I lost my hands for this,
For fame.

M.
written Aug 26/13 under the title “We Salute the Loss”

The Narrow Path

I wander and the world speaks not my name
I look upon the brooks, content with light
And laughter; and the sea by man untamed
Sits, and the sky though slightly marred is bright
But as the world rests I my feet urge on
In rhythms better regular than right
Still seeking, for to heaven I am drawn
Where envy, ever dark, will lose the sight
That sees the stones ahead more loved than I
And trees above my head much more content
Bright birds more blessed in their fertile sky
And beasts upstanding where my back is bent
For though this road is hard I’d rather stay
Upon the narrow path than from it stray

M.
written Jan 30/15

“Hello World”

“Hello World”: these are the first two words an aspiring programmer is supposed to type into his python (or java) engine. I figure it’s good enough for a blog too – it has the feel of saluting a grand audience of electronically connected listeners, a sea of invisible ears (eyes, really) with little mouths and vocal chords attached to the fingers.

Welcome to the wonderful world of “my blog”: an as-of-yet unformed entity that will eventually consist of a series of essays, informative paragraphs, pictures, stories, and excerpts. The goal of [insertcleverwordplay] is to educate and exhibit interesting things within the scope of three general categories: Writing, Art, and Fantasy World Building (a wondrous topic which I will introduce you to in a future post). As an aspiring artist and writer I hope to interest you in the topics I have come to love. By writing about my interests, passions, successes, failures, and ideas, I hope to spur your imagination and expose you to new topics, teaching you something novel and exciting about my small corner of this beautiful world.

M.