31.3.08
Fallen
For K, and S, and sometimes Y
Castaway from a heavenly court
You pulled aside a shielded wing
To reveal the darkness
That pulsed through you first, last
When your Maker insisted
Your desires are not worth the Creation.
It is easy for me to advise rebellion.
She is not my mother.
I am not chained in blood.
Still, hear and heed as now I say:
The sin of the tree
Does not rule the apple.
You have sweetness untold.
You are yet a queen of autumn.
29.3.08
Night Visitor (slightly revised)
It was a silverfish on the wall.
In the cone-glow of a lampshade.
They elicit
bad dreams of housedeeps.
A spider, you think a loner.
Execution, then forget it.
A neatly-folded moth, narrow squared
wings is a grandmother's attic.
It's that fishy name,
you think of how they must teem.
In the dark walls
their movements a chaos of crossings
under and over.
Schoolcraft. Skittery hexes.
Lousy with legs.
Having seen one sprint
its wending way down textured paint,
silver-flash
you don't want to take your eyes off.
I hate them.
Please, deliver us from the creeps.
Springtime, all I want to see
are ladybug orgies in the woodwork.
They make you dream
of vaulted ceilings you cannot reach.
28.3.08
Of Absence
Nothing is different beyond the window save the absence of sunlight, and the accompanying cool that goes with that territory. Our behavior has shifted, yes--the sound of cars comes less often. Thinking about how many billions of repetitions of this coming and going of light.
No, that wasn't a grammatically correct sentence.
The walls of the house create the illusion of so much more separation and safety than they truly provide. At this moment there are things, mammalian predators, snakes, lightning bolts, that could be my accidental end and they are on the same playing field, just separated by miles, or cages, or aquarium tanks. A cough in someone's chest in Botswana.
Is that even a country anymore?
But enough of this dire rumination. The fact is I am in a place of relative safety. All things considered, there's no finer place on earth. And the night is quiet--I haven't even got any music playing. Ten years ago I'd have popped on the radio immediately. Which sounds like a very good idea.
"Hotel California", 1976. The Eagles. This could be Heaven, or this could be Hell.
I've been reminiscing this evening. Googling the names of ghosts, happening upon an old blog, remembering, remembering. We haven't had that spirit here since 1969. I haven't embarked on a serious work of fiction in a long time. Something completely dark and indulgent, vampires and sex and obscene language. Twisted ideas and whorled morals. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. Ain't that the truth?
Well, I for one hope it is.
Got big plans on haunting Rush Road someday, freaking out teenagers, drunken farmer's daughters, making the eyes of raccoons glow. Being confused with the moonlit mist, being mistaken for a rustle in the wet corn leaves. The music never receding like it does in the studio, but simply continuing on, forever, like that mythical cut of "Hey Jude" that never, ever ends.
I'm drifting a bit, under no influence whatsoever, except the release of pressure--the decompression of a boy shoved into a man-suit shoved into the presence of the Vice President of Finance who, to say true, is really a pretty cool guy... but that's a bit more of "the life" than I ever want to pack on my back.
Still, those rumored days of "things getting better" have not yet come to pass as prophesied, and so I've continued to work the extra hours and buy the extra time and deal (poorly) with the extra stress, all the time aching to unload the whole persona, the whole bloody routine, and return to the things I love like a freaking swallow to Capistrano on speed.
And on that note, the room is quiet. The lacy edge of sunlight racing over the planet towards me is a few hours closer than it was before. Had I a letter, I would seal it. Had I an auditorium, I'd douse the house lights. All I have is myself, and down come the eyelids, on cue.
Buenos noches.
No, that wasn't a grammatically correct sentence.
The walls of the house create the illusion of so much more separation and safety than they truly provide. At this moment there are things, mammalian predators, snakes, lightning bolts, that could be my accidental end and they are on the same playing field, just separated by miles, or cages, or aquarium tanks. A cough in someone's chest in Botswana.
Is that even a country anymore?
But enough of this dire rumination. The fact is I am in a place of relative safety. All things considered, there's no finer place on earth. And the night is quiet--I haven't even got any music playing. Ten years ago I'd have popped on the radio immediately. Which sounds like a very good idea.
"Hotel California", 1976. The Eagles. This could be Heaven, or this could be Hell.
I've been reminiscing this evening. Googling the names of ghosts, happening upon an old blog, remembering, remembering. We haven't had that spirit here since 1969. I haven't embarked on a serious work of fiction in a long time. Something completely dark and indulgent, vampires and sex and obscene language. Twisted ideas and whorled morals. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. Ain't that the truth?
Well, I for one hope it is.
Got big plans on haunting Rush Road someday, freaking out teenagers, drunken farmer's daughters, making the eyes of raccoons glow. Being confused with the moonlit mist, being mistaken for a rustle in the wet corn leaves. The music never receding like it does in the studio, but simply continuing on, forever, like that mythical cut of "Hey Jude" that never, ever ends.
I'm drifting a bit, under no influence whatsoever, except the release of pressure--the decompression of a boy shoved into a man-suit shoved into the presence of the Vice President of Finance who, to say true, is really a pretty cool guy... but that's a bit more of "the life" than I ever want to pack on my back.
Still, those rumored days of "things getting better" have not yet come to pass as prophesied, and so I've continued to work the extra hours and buy the extra time and deal (poorly) with the extra stress, all the time aching to unload the whole persona, the whole bloody routine, and return to the things I love like a freaking swallow to Capistrano on speed.
And on that note, the room is quiet. The lacy edge of sunlight racing over the planet towards me is a few hours closer than it was before. Had I a letter, I would seal it. Had I an auditorium, I'd douse the house lights. All I have is myself, and down come the eyelids, on cue.
Buenos noches.
18.3.08
Dearest Friend
Last night, I dreamt of an afternoon horizon full of moons--it was beautiful. Eight of them, at least, all full and enormous. I couldn't tell which one was the real one, I only knew that the rest of them were reflections and echoes. An old ghost riding next to me (he pops up in my dreams now and then) made a comment that suggested they portended some spectacular new moon in the coming days. Yes, that's right... a new moon, the one you cannot see. He said we would have to be sure to check it out.
For Caesar, they say, the Ides of March were full of dark portents.
For you, born three days hence, they have filled my mind with a bright vision of wonder.
Happy birthday, Sara Eve. :)
For Caesar, they say, the Ides of March were full of dark portents.
For you, born three days hence, they have filled my mind with a bright vision of wonder.
Happy birthday, Sara Eve. :)
15.3.08
Whiling
I sit in the grass
making chains of adverbs
to lay atop your proverbial crown.
Necks of daisies bend back
for my gangliest laurels.
When a small early locust lands
on your thigh, with yellow-green legs
you smile spritely.
Expertly.
Aboriginally.
It is like you are the base state of glory
the world returns to
after every war.
14.3.08
The Adversary
This is something I wrote awhile ago, a couple years ago at least. Right after reading Stephen King's The Stand, which got me to thinking about a character who has been my own Randall Flagg, my own Crimson King. Believe it or not I used to write fiction all the time. Tons of it. I've got hundreds of pages of unfinished business. Worlds on pause. The question I hit myself up with all the time is, when are you going to wake them up again?
Ozihael had learned the lesson. Evil—that which seeks to destroy all which wishes to create—must work alone. The singular flaw of evil was its self-consuming nature, its tendency to spin out of control with the force of its own malice. To have minions, to build intricate plans with pawns and armies—that was where evil built-in its own downfall. Ozihael, therefore, sought no allies. He made himself strong, smart, and most of all careful—and he did his work alone. He did not plan—he maneuvered his way among the plans of others, smashing the cogs as he went. He did not raise an army—he was the army.
Minions could turn on you. They could have sudden attacks of conscience or sanity, or be bought by your adversaries. They were a wild card. A risk.
And who doesn’t know the old adage about the best-laid plans? Going into a world with a plan for how to destroy it was foolhardy at best. Instead, Ozihael slipped into pre-existing plans as fluidly as he walked between the worlds. He looked, saw what was being created, sought the lynchpin, and pulled it out.
Sometimes he set himself up as a dictator. This worked well in worlds where nobody knew much magic, or where the weapons were primitive. He looked for lives that could be torn apart. He looked for beauty that could be tortured into ruin. And always he kept an eye open for a reaction.
How long would the Creator allow such atrocities to go on? The answer seemed to be indefinitely. And that pained Ozihael all the more, because as much as he wanted to face down his maker, he wanted that Being to prove more kind than himself. What kind of Creator would sit back and let Ozihael take Its creations to pieces? Was It a coward? He wanted to see a thick vein of hypocrisy pulsing in his maker’s mind—who would create such wonderful realities, all with such loving attention to detail, and yet only look on impotently as one among them stood up and challenged, spilling blood and raining fire as he waited? It had supposedly given Ozihael and all the other souls of the worlds this unlimited freedom, this Will to do as they pleased, but how could It? How could It possibly, when they were all trapped within It? What Ozihael wanted was to see the Creator make a slip, tip Its hand, show Its true desire—that all of Its creations should play by Its rules. Let It force my hand, Ozihael thought. And I will show It just what free will means...
Thus far, although a trail of dead and dying worlds littered his history, Ozihael had not been able to draw even a disapproving glance from his Creator. Except....
There was that young man, Pfilip. His once-friend, Pfilip. And that little tart that traveled with him, Hestia, with the amethyst eyes and dark green hair. He had known them, been in their presence, looked them over. They were no different than he, yet perhaps they were the Creator’s pawns, Its pitiful operatives. Killing them might be the act to push things over the edge, but hunting them seemed... a waste. A Creator that cared more about two dewy-eyed lovers than the burning of an entire world was such a ridiculous thought that Ozihael rarely entertained it. When he did give this consideration, the day often ended with a thrashing or a slaughter, and a rant directed at the sky.
Ozihael knew his maker could manifest Itself anywhere, possibly inside his own mind, but yelling into a mirror was too much like madness...
Ozihael had learned the lesson. Evil—that which seeks to destroy all which wishes to create—must work alone. The singular flaw of evil was its self-consuming nature, its tendency to spin out of control with the force of its own malice. To have minions, to build intricate plans with pawns and armies—that was where evil built-in its own downfall. Ozihael, therefore, sought no allies. He made himself strong, smart, and most of all careful—and he did his work alone. He did not plan—he maneuvered his way among the plans of others, smashing the cogs as he went. He did not raise an army—he was the army.
Minions could turn on you. They could have sudden attacks of conscience or sanity, or be bought by your adversaries. They were a wild card. A risk.
And who doesn’t know the old adage about the best-laid plans? Going into a world with a plan for how to destroy it was foolhardy at best. Instead, Ozihael slipped into pre-existing plans as fluidly as he walked between the worlds. He looked, saw what was being created, sought the lynchpin, and pulled it out.
Sometimes he set himself up as a dictator. This worked well in worlds where nobody knew much magic, or where the weapons were primitive. He looked for lives that could be torn apart. He looked for beauty that could be tortured into ruin. And always he kept an eye open for a reaction.
How long would the Creator allow such atrocities to go on? The answer seemed to be indefinitely. And that pained Ozihael all the more, because as much as he wanted to face down his maker, he wanted that Being to prove more kind than himself. What kind of Creator would sit back and let Ozihael take Its creations to pieces? Was It a coward? He wanted to see a thick vein of hypocrisy pulsing in his maker’s mind—who would create such wonderful realities, all with such loving attention to detail, and yet only look on impotently as one among them stood up and challenged, spilling blood and raining fire as he waited? It had supposedly given Ozihael and all the other souls of the worlds this unlimited freedom, this Will to do as they pleased, but how could It? How could It possibly, when they were all trapped within It? What Ozihael wanted was to see the Creator make a slip, tip Its hand, show Its true desire—that all of Its creations should play by Its rules. Let It force my hand, Ozihael thought. And I will show It just what free will means...
Thus far, although a trail of dead and dying worlds littered his history, Ozihael had not been able to draw even a disapproving glance from his Creator. Except....
There was that young man, Pfilip. His once-friend, Pfilip. And that little tart that traveled with him, Hestia, with the amethyst eyes and dark green hair. He had known them, been in their presence, looked them over. They were no different than he, yet perhaps they were the Creator’s pawns, Its pitiful operatives. Killing them might be the act to push things over the edge, but hunting them seemed... a waste. A Creator that cared more about two dewy-eyed lovers than the burning of an entire world was such a ridiculous thought that Ozihael rarely entertained it. When he did give this consideration, the day often ended with a thrashing or a slaughter, and a rant directed at the sky.
Ozihael knew his maker could manifest Itself anywhere, possibly inside his own mind, but yelling into a mirror was too much like madness...
3.3.08
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