Blueberries grow in the sun-streaked wood,
and the bullfrogs will grumble as they always would;
the buck, the doe, their fawns will graze
in the crumbling roadways, the springtime haze,
nuzzling and feasting their wild fare
and no man will be remembered there.
I know the words in the actress’ throats,
heard them before the breath was drawn,
the recitation confirms my fears,
the first word of the scene triggers knowledge of the last.
I assume this is some known condition
one part Déjà, two parts vu,
but it reminds me of a woman, years ago,
who told me she could predict the future,
who told me there was something I had to do,
something important, that all my life
would build towards the completion of;
she asked me for five dollars, afterwards,
and I felt the strangest sense –
like I knew she would ask for that.
of course I can’t expect you to come with me,
I can’t think of a worse curse to inflict on a person I like.
Because no matter how long it goes well,
A date, a year, a lifetime,
It all ends, my fears come true
And yours, too. Every flaw is revealed
With enough time for inspection,
Every taste grows a bite, every
Sound, sustained, will whine through your skull.
Apples sweeten as they rot,
and even long-buried bones
And I hope you will come with me,
I really still hope.
I’m pleased to announce that my short script, Hollowheart, was selected for inclusion in the P.A Indie Shorts Film Festival script competition. It’s the first time any of my short scripts have been selected for a festival, and as far as I’m aware it’s the only script in the running named after a tuber deformity.
If you’re at all local to the area (or enjoy a leisurely drive through some kickass mountain towns) I highly recommend stopping by for the festival; a short film co-written by myself and Jeremy Herbert, The Things With the Glowing Green Eyes, will also be playing at the festival.
Hope to see you there,
mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, buzzing around my nose
move the L-E-Ds behind me to get that cool silhouette effect
flip on the homemade glasses, the whole world starts aglow
green eyes in the night, the cameraman says ‘roll!’
and I wonder if it’s worth it, I think everybody is
not just the boys in the woods that night, testing out the shots,
but judges wonder in their courtrooms,
cashiers daydream in their aisles
why does everything we’re waiting for,
take such a damn long while?
Mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, moths pulsing to the lights
eyes blazing like a memory of the Cuyahoga’s burning
the actor’s got his pistol out, pointing at my face,
and I’m just yearning for something, without moving my head.
A puddle with no ripples,
a mirror broken in the street.W
what lays within you?
mud, frogs, promised blooms?
What rain passed
leaving you on the asphalt?
Where will you go
now that the sun is shining again?
It is a childish thing, is it not,
to see a shattered window and think
to pick up all the shards
Your hands are left bloodied,
and no matter how delicate
the process, how terrible
the glass will not stitch itself
Ah, but if the window
were pieced together,
would the history of breakage
not make it more beautiful?
It might take your eyes a moment to adjust,
a painful, eternal moment, the splintering
of life into ‘then’ and ‘now’. It might take
a lifetime to learn how to see through
these fresh eyes; to hear the chirping birds,
the wind rippling across wild goldenrod,
the fresh smells of spring, of autumn,
all so different than what you were told of them.
while you sit in the crisp air, surrounded by green smells and
you may find yourself itching, yearning
for a return to someplace
that no longer exists.
You talk about love like a mushroom forager
wary of the smooth surfaces, the
always looking at what you find from every angle-
the gills, the spore-print, the
root and scent of love.
no matter how wary your thoughts were,
you’re lying in hospital,
stomach acid leaking into your liver,
dreaming of a destroying angel.
You told me that some birds have hollow bones-
for flying, you said,
to keep weight down.
I understood. I wonder
why we act
as surely as spinning tops,
only knowing movement
I wonder why my spirit feels so empty,
why the world seems so heavy?
Perhaps this emptiness is only
a promise that, some day,
I will soar.