#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.

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.

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.

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.

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.