#dailywriting — Public Fediverse posts

precipitate

from the roil,
from the boil,
the slush of forgetfulness
frothing; the casting
vapor wafting off;
a hard and shining dust
in the bottom of the pan –
for now, not now, too hot to touch,
but when it cools –
when it cools –
we’ll learn what exactly
was drifting around in there.

fingers in the spokes

there is an allowable amount of horror;
a simmer agreed upon,
a subset of families dragged
away in the night, a volume of dogs
shot point-blank by the state;
human is the excuse-making animal.
given a slow enough stalking
even a flimsy doe will turn and scream
and kick; will try anything
to alert, to defend.
but our threshold are high.
the factory consumes hands;
every day, one or many –
but so long as the product is good,
who bothers to care?

fingers in the spokes

there is an allowable amount of horror;
a simmer agreed upon,
a subset of families dragged
away in the night, a volume of dogs
shot point-blank by the state;
human is the excuse-making animal.
given a slow enough stalking
even a flimsy doe will turn and scream
and kick; will try anything
to alert, to defend.
but our threshold are high.
the factory consumes hands;
every day, one or many –
but so long as the product is good,
who bothers to care?

fingers in the spokes

there is an allowable amount of horror;
a simmer agreed upon,
a subset of families dragged
away in the night, a volume of dogs
shot point-blank by the state;
human is the excuse-making animal.
given a slow enough stalking
even a flimsy doe will turn and scream
and kick; will try anything
to alert, to defend.
but our threshold are high.
the factory consumes hands;
every day, one or many –
but so long as the product is good,
who bothers to care?

fingers in the spokes

there is an allowable amount of horror;
a simmer agreed upon,
a subset of families dragged
away in the night, a volume of dogs
shot point-blank by the state;
human is the excuse-making animal.
given a slow enough stalking
even a flimsy doe will turn and scream
and kick; will try anything
to alert, to defend.
but our threshold are high.
the factory consumes hands;
every day, one or many –
but so long as the product is good,
who bothers to care?

fingers in the spokes

there is an allowable amount of horror;
a simmer agreed upon,
a subset of families dragged
away in the night, a volume of dogs
shot point-blank by the state;
human is the excuse-making animal.
given a slow enough stalking
even a flimsy doe will turn and scream
and kick; will try anything
to alert, to defend.
but our threshold are high.
the factory consumes hands;
every day, one or many –
but so long as the product is good,
who bothers to care?

Once More With —

his eyes went glassy, glassy, grazing
out in the back nine, his fingers reaching
down and plucking mustard
like they used to retrieve tees;
the man with placid face has
gone delicious; gone divine;
become something more than man,
something less than food,
something caught in
history’s mouth, something
ground in the gullet of a tale
as old as time.

THE SIX THOUSAND GODS OF WISHFUL THINKING

They are up there! All of them!
They are watching us with
half a span of attention, they
are watching us and dawdling their phones,
they are surprised how much we’re like them, but
not with any familiarity; any fondness; the
six thousand gods are pretty sure
we’ll get out of this one, we
always have in the past; the twelve thousand
(less or more a few) eyes are drifting away,
through the cool of space to some other
place, with some other people:
it’ll all turn out alright, probably,
they’ll check back
later, maybe,
and see what’s left

beneath one fern

beneath the green a
world of information; a
universe of happenings, unknown
to those big peoples –
beneath one leaf a scent-trail,
a hunt, a war, a
thousand thousand crawling things
that live and die
like us,
that survive
like us,
a sense of scale
the same as us, with
skyscraper oaks outside
their homes;
with grassy, dangerous fields and
water clarifying in tracks as
legible as crater-blasts;
it is all happening always
at every scale,
lesser and greater.

The I

over and over and flying through
the heaps; and under the
shimmer of garbage, the
sheen of filth; over and
over it looks, it listens,
it hears from up there,
over, and over it
glances left, right, center,
and takes in nothing !
and hears nothing !
over it goes, over
corpses of friends and
foes, over corpses of
the still-living, the
still-dying, over !
nothing is enough,
for all is under !
under !
it flies, free,
untouched!
untouching!