Continuum Six

Wander

Thu, 24 May 2012 20:00:14 -0400

I

Wayne rides his motorbike on lawns
leaving deep furrows
half-pipes for ants and earthworms
an unrecognized hero
parting the seas of green.

Mud speckles Wayne’s letterman jacket
but he’s not concerned.
The rain will wash it clean
soon enough.

II

As a child, Wayne disliked shoes.
His parents were informed that
all children must wear shoes to school.
They tied his laces every morning
despite his objections.

Wayne ties his own laces now.
He has no choice in the matter
but doesn’t really mind.

III

Where are you going?
Wayne doesn’t know, shrugs.
Well, this wing is restricted. Did you know that?
Yes. Maybe. Doubtful, actually.
Move along then.
Gladly. I already have what I came for.

Wayne leaves the museum with his ticket stub
and the hint of a smile.

IV

Working night shifts
Wayne is the only person alive.
His mind drifts south
past the border.

It is summer here. Flowers bloom
people are dancing.
Wayne hates the wind, but
this wind is warm and carries him
into loving arms.

She welcomes him into
her home and her bed
baking him cupcakes
and telling him stories
in language he does not understand.

V

Sometimes, Wayne swims in the ocean
early in the morning.

He heard once that comfort is
the first sign of hypothermia.
When chill pain becomes numbness
and numbness becomes tranquility
Wayne moves on.

VI

Wayne is running for the bus
but the driver doesn’t see.
Wayne keeps running
anyway.

He runs through streets and
alleyways and backyards and
swimming pools and forests
and when daylight comes
he can see the wounds.

VII

The doctor said that maybe
if Wayne tried a little harder
he would stop bleeding.

Wayne doubts this is true
but agrees
he’s not really trying.

Puget Sound (Taken with Instagram at Discovery Park)

Sun, 20 May 2012 18:56:20 -0400

Puget Sound (Taken with Instagram at Discovery Park)

Not a mirror. (Taken with Instagram at Sciences Library...

Fri, 04 May 2012 15:08:14 -0400

Not a mirror. (Taken with Instagram at Sciences Library (SciLi))

Taken with instagram

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 14:23:57 -0400

Taken with instagram

keep yo swag tight drive yo Jag right laser tag like Barney Stinson might.

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 15:46:20 -0400

keep yo swag tight
drive yo Jag right
laser tag like
Barney Stinson might.

I bought my friend a disco ball.

Sat, 07 Apr 2012 15:30:53 -0400

I bought my friend a disco ball.

Fruit bowl.

Sun, 01 Apr 2012 13:47:00 -0400

Fruit bowl.

Incompleteness

Sun, 01 Apr 2012 13:46:00 -0400

White walls, and white, flickering, fluorescent light. The walls are soft and high, with no marks or indentations. I tried, at the beginning, to tear the walls away. And then merely to mark the passage of time upon them. But the walls do not give in. Will never give in.

The light ticks, occasionally. Even when it’s off, for indescribably dark periods of I-can’t-tell-how-long, it ticks, as if taunting me with some semblance of pattern. Here, within these walls, there is no passage of time. At any moment, it is either dark and will be light, or light and will be dark. The alternation of these is a sickening repetition — the future mimics the past and present — a cycle, not a passage.

When it is dark, I do not sleep. I can hear the walls listening. The slow blink of ear-lids. I defy their guile — for in the light, the ears hide. This way, they can never listen to me sleep.

In the darkness, my being collapses to a point, within walls.

I cannot find anything outside my consciousness, except the walls. I long for them to also be a figment, as is everything else. But I know they are not. The walls are all that is real.

In the darkness, I hear rustlings and patterings and swishings and sometimes voices. I feel pricks in my skin and hands that reach for my body as I pull away. I find gaps in my memory, once the light flicks back on, expanses of life which I know must have existed but which I cannot describe.

I can see marks on my arms.

When I dream, I dream the past. The walls close in around me. Gates clank shut. Men in white lab-coats look at me with disgust behind their eyes. Handcuffs click into place, cold metal against my wrists. I am startled by the barking of dogs and the splintering of wood. Thrilling pleasure, sickening fear. Stifled screams. Her eyes, no longer pleading, press closed. Just like the ones before.

Flowers grow in the dark, and I press them back into the plastic.

My mind fills the empty space, stretching into the corners of my enclosure. I have come to understand the cell in its entirety. I know the subtleties of texture and presence and motivation. For all I know, these six panels are all that is left of the world I barely remember. For all I know, my vague memories are just another illusion.

The human body is fragile. Fingers snap or dislocate so easily, hot pain which drives away visions of greater terrors. Over two hundred and thirty joints in the human body: over two hundred and thirty escapes from the reality of my imagination.

Sometimes, the roof springs a leak. It’s always gone by the morning.

I am well experienced with the delicacy of the upper neck. Even the softest of surfaces cannot fully absorb a well-executed collision. I prop myself upon on my arms, elbows locked, leaning my feet against the wall, and consider this. It seems too easy.

Is there a reality after death? I do not believe in God. But I’m starting to believe in hell.

Airborne Sunrise (Taken with instagram)

Sat, 24 Mar 2012 14:40:45 -0400

Airborne Sunrise (Taken with instagram)

Photo

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 10:59:00 -0400

Abstract.

Tue, 13 Mar 2012 01:11:44 -0400

Abstract.

Of the man who created classics behind mountains

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 10:54:00 -0500

Never elements but us white presidential car think
and standards the coming wrinkled low dull swell
in is think of spot thunder cannot about no your who, of
final these and vegetation his you fable drowned ionian striding two and
hot the surrender pine is always cannot downward lands with the,
and in lands in you of his pine,
moment took king should was rock peculiar of to, horns little
your in desert you current lady is encounter
by rock the two payment the frost of.
Great under testimony covering from one bring etiquette, my queen

This is a stanza of nonsense poetry which I generated from the text of Eliot’s “The Wasteland”, satisfying the prompt for my poetry class: “write a poem which makes no sense”. I also made a mini-webapp to do this sort of thing — check it out!

forever sighs, giving way. the present is ever more beautiful.

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 15:04:00 -0500

forever sighs, giving way.
the present is ever more beautiful.

Photo

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 15:02:00 -0500

Hey, that’s my school.

Sat, 25 Feb 2012 10:56:11 -0500

Hey, that’s my school.

From the Providence train station.

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 08:57:21 -0500

From the Providence train station.

face locked in an eternal scowl she drinks tea and wields a chainsaw.

Wed, 15 Feb 2012 13:24:00 -0500

face locked in an eternal scowl
she drinks tea
and wields a chainsaw.

Photo

Wed, 08 Feb 2012 14:17:15 -0500

You are loved. (Taken with instagram)

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 14:42:34 -0500

You are loved. (Taken with instagram)

Taken with instagram

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 16:00:10 -0500

Taken with instagram