Low Disk Space


“In the near future

Petrogenic tubes will allow us

To map each other’s hearts

And not in the sense of

Pulse, pressure, or saturation;

We will be able to translate “I forgot”

Into everything that was unsaid

And tease the edges of communion

Wrapping into ourselves.”

“You should have just returned my calls.

It’s a basic signalling game –

But this may be my favourite

Of all your fragile lies.”

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Origins


“No, I don’t believe in our having been chimpanzees, or cavemen, or peasants without indoor plumbing, or the like. Don’t go calling me a creationist, though – I can see it in your face. I think the creationists have it wrong, too.

“I’ll allow for the possibility of dinosaurs and the planet being however many eons old. But I’m not going to be suckered in by the theory that our ancestors ran around for millennia without cotton underwear, Advil, or knowing to boil their water.

“You’ll see why, if you think about it. So many untreatable itches and infections would have gotten us. No black pants or clean pads – if the predators didn’t get you, the vaginosis would have. No oatmeal baths or baby-grade laundry detergent. No cranberry juice, probiotics, antibiotics, acid capsules, or surgeons to pick out stray bits of uterus.

“No. We all had to be born somehow, and there’s just no way that vaginas could have survived in the wild.”

Parallel Outlet: 11


Related image

Sleep slower, and maybe you’ll notice curious things. Be wary of using words like “indefinitely” – this comes with a poem:

Baby, I’ll crawl to you

across the vast mirage of time and space

should misfortune befall time itself

or the laws of physics break

It has been nearly a year since I first read the post “sleep slowly”, and the four lines of that poem still come back to me. Continue reading “Parallel Outlet: 11”

Where I am From


IMG_20171229_164109-EFFECTS

When you buried my shovel

I was left idle, unmasked and thinking

There is no glitter in my well

No gold ‘mong damp and mossy dark

Most ropes would recoil

But these linen plaits graze water

Unfrayed and still and tranquil

As the maple roof and stonework above

Anglo, Roman-Catholic stays

Build ribcages smoother than granite

And flakes of mica without replace

Ingots for those who would clamber within

Some eyes stay bright and guileless through

Trials largely of one’s own making

Rope winding, coiling back to

Where I am from

*

Based on the prompt “Where I’m from”:

Writing to Freedom

Summoning Magic: A Gypsy’s Tale

Walk 3.01


Alone, she would be three lights ahead and going sideways between a lamppost and a garbage bin to get ahead of that slow-moving family.

Instead his arm is a leash and when she tries to hurry at the end of the walk signals his disparagement has her ashamed at scurrying out of consideration for others. Never mind personal safety, or respect for the rules of the road.

She should not be so proactive about trying to move the two of them out of the way of people’s pictures. She should not try to pull him back from a map when others are trying to look too.

This way he sees her half-assed, and cringing against her own instinct for speed, for politeness.

He isn’t there when her quick, slender ankles are flashing, her chin up and eyes scanning. Anticipating when the lights will turn. He doesn’t see her turning adroitly to get through a crowd, or skirting two girls taking pictures on the bridge, without breaking stride. Zipping down the stairs into the park.

He doesn’t know what she is like when she is walking without him.