|
| a great estate,
throwing wooden crosses on a shelf for sale.
crawl around a trash compactor in a cardboard sea
that might as well contain the high title of degree,
while one in ten wish such a chance were theirs.
a tall and mighty man who surfs the crags of rock bottom,
hoping to raise himself up for his own part.
who am i but the dust below those boxes
who would have himself held up and called upon by many?
would i mix my soul with devils and hope to sift it out?
i kiss the stone floor before my feet
for my own hands which hold me up
with lent out strength and borrowed breath.
a great estate,
throwing my pride out on a shelf for sale.
sell the rubbish i've entangled
in the hooks of much esteem,
whose intricacies i once implored.
stored within the selfishness
of walls and water on tap.
i find far more than whisperings of fame:
a fortune set to put against my debt.
i have found myself a cardboard pile,
a great estate. | | |
| You are good and
times are rough down here.
and i'll cry
help me, help me, save me something fierce.
this is no test.
it feels imperative, necessity,
as if i threw away the roof above me
and the food that rests at the bottom of my gut.
i'm in my place to look through dust for scraps,
ear poised unwavering for whisperings that
help me, help me, save me something fast.
there is no food, no rest, no love.
not even hope without You.
as i pry tears of two eyes
from hours of one day.
you ought to hear my soul by now
it utters help me, help me, save me sometime soon.
maybe honesty will go a little ways with You
i've got to get my gripes out now and then,
because i wish You had my case held with you
that Your face would find this simple thing;
that Your grace could fix him up.
or that You turn these stubborn eyes
and help me, help me, see things like You do. | | |
| **Back to the news story about the equator accelerator. as a small note, I plan to make this a "short story" and not really a novel or anything. I'm also experimenting with varying degrees of extended poetry and prose interplay, as I'm sure you may have noticed from the previous couple of entries.**
Though the scientific community eagerly awaits the results of the nonon beltloop bash, the Earth Coalition continues to voice their concerns for what they call “irresponsible projects of this magnitude.” You’ll recall that the EC launched a worldwide campaign for conservation early last year and was able to persuade the United Governance Assembly to allot several large portions of land in the North Americas for reforestation. This windfall seems to have breathed new life into their movement, bolstering demonstrations and protests against the Equator Accelerator. The EC cites soil erosion and inclement wildlife migration as their primary concerns for the UGA’s decision to proceed with construction and operation of the accelerator. | | |
| We hover onward strangely twisted in the charcoal form of one broken thing. The ram, amalgamated meat, sinew, fur; it drips blood like an autumn rain. Head contorted, its faded pupils scatter upwards as shards of embers from a kindled fire. The flames would breathe their last. Under the charcoal a crooked old man weeps over his footsteps. His world is broken snowflakes and the strongest rope he owns. Both wrapped around his catch. That I become so distanced from this kismet must be proof I have a soul. Or am I so thinly based that I am but a string and snow? No, for now I have a soul. | | |
| *Part of the intro for the old man. more on this later.*
These hands swim in warm oceans, marred like this torso stained with blood; they crumple up the life they hold that I might be sustained. This body on my shoulders battles off the cold and stays the hunger pangs that snap and bite my ribs. The mountain ram is the only game in old December. We are the only ones that brave these heights. | | |
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