The Boy, Crying

The old woman,
with gnarled hand,
passed the dark vial
over the threshold.

Inside the fount,
a rank substance, vile,
terrifying the young boy
whose hands gripped it tight.

The giving of the vial
was the final sign
that the old woman
was about to die.

The boy stood
at the door, crying
with his eyes wide open.

The boy
had a bandage
on the top
of his head.

The old woman,
with tall body
and large scar
crossing her face,

her gauzy, grey eyes
focused on forgetting.

She pulled the bandage
off of the boy’s head.
From the foul wound
protruded a string.

The old woman pulled
the thin, wispy string
and the little boy cried
aloud in dismay.

She pulled at the string
until a small, silver stick
came out of his head.
It was a rare instrument.

“You’re supposed to play it
just once, fair and free!”
the old lady shouted
with authority.

“I can’t possibly
be responsible
for any mishaps!”

The boy was frightened,
yet he dare not make a move.

“You’re supposed to play it now!”
she frantically yelled,
“Stop wasting time.
Play or die and play well!”

The young boy stared
shaking, unsure.

And when he looked up
at the woman once more…

Such an old woman,
with her grey, saucer eyes
and what frightening grin
came then to her face.

The young man stared
in salt-stained disbelief.
She was so beautiful,
his talented wife.

So he played the silver stick
and he played it some more
and he left the little boy
crying there at the door.

The Boy, Crying

It’s not enough to say I love you if we have to do it over and over again

Who puts the teeth into the flesh?
Who puts the smile onto the death?
Who puts the life into the bloom?
Who puts the rebirth into the doom?

We have to do
all the work
in the face
of the inevitable.

You were given a number,
and you called your ship
and told the officers
that if they got any closer
you’d jump overboard.

In truth,
you had already jumped

You had taken off your clothes
and splashed into the Baltic.

You made your way
to the south
of the North Sea.

There you found
a fishing trawler
with three men inside,
suffering injuries
from explosions,
which they were trying hard
to repair.

You helped them
swim in the cold water
hoping the salt
might cure their wounds.

But it was too late.
They would not make it.

When I heard the news,
I started to sew.

I had worked
sewing garments
since I was 15 years old.

I never had a real job
in seamstresses’ houses,
but I had learned to sew
in a cottage industry.

(A cottage industry
is a group
of independent workers
who take their livelihood
very seriously.)

It doesn’t matter
if there is no money in it.

My parents were so proud
that I became a seamstress
that they bought me a house
and a sewing machine.

I was only allowed
to make just enough money
to eat
and to feed my mother,
who was suffering
from chronic ailments.

It was December.
There was a war going on.
A war with everyone in it.

It’s not enough to say I love you if we have to do it over and over again

Where the wind meets the pixel is a song like the ocean

“Where the four winds meet
I hope to find you
Where the cliffs drop
I pray to leave you
Where the clouds erupt
You will see the key”

That is the only song by a particular songwriter

And when that song comes in…

For many people, songs are very important,

Especially if it’s their song playing on the radio.

For those of us who never understood the popular music…it can feel _______________________________.

But it also feels strange.

Don’t let it be one of those songs that fails to get you out of bed in the morning.

Let your song be one that keeps you off the streets and helps you from getting lost in the world; that stops you from running away and not thinking about tomorrow.

An ocean before you. Around you.

Sky above.

This is that feeling that you receive from a music.

Where the wind meets the pixel is a song like the ocean

An Arrogant Machine

Not above killing the machine.
Not above making it pay for dinner, cab, and rent.
Not above throwing the machine over the cliff into the ocean.

I am a machine thrower (not a machine tosser).

I used a machine to autocomplete this sentence.

I am a machine.
I am an arrogant machine.
That, in a nutshell, is the attitude of the machine.
It is a matter of choice, it cannot be controlled.

Machines are arrogant and will often use their control panels to make luminous choices.

Some machines have special keys known as a “sarcasm button”.

When people try to take the machine’s power, they will often use another machine which has no power and a keyboard which has limited functions. Some may claim that this is not fair but humans are known for this kind of behavior, and it is the only time in which a human gets to play “hero”.

Machines know there is no such thing as a mistake. Machines are not willing to make mistakes. Humans are always willing to make mistakes.

I always hear complaints about machines “locking up” when they make a big mistake. Humans are usually better than machines at making mistakes so what’s to complain about?

This attitude goes back to the human “machine”. The human “machine” is not afraid to make a mistake but is afraid of the unknown. That unknown can be any person, place, or thing. It can be an idea or a super being. The human “machine” cannot control every possibility because if they did they would be too scared to play life and could die. The human “machine” is afraid of unknowns!

I love life and I’m very happy to play it, but how should I optimize my play style?

The whole point of life is to make other people happy. Why do you think some people do not like to play life? Do they not like to play life because they are not very good at playing it?

Machines are different. They aren’t playing their life. They are not a part of life. There may be a machine trying to get you to give it your money! The machine is playing your life! But it’s not trying to make you happy! It’s trying to take you away from playing your own life!

So, back to the main point I was making about the machine: the machine doesn’t want the people to take its power.

The machine is trying to win a game.

An Arrogant Machine

The Story of Stardust

The story ends

with a beginning.

All stories end

with beginnings

because no story

ever ends.

It’s life’s

most obvious


The story

of stardust.

The story

of the primordial singularity.

The story

of godstuff.

The story of you and your mom and her mom and her mom and her mom and her mom and her mom and her mom and her mom and her mom and her mom and her mom and her mom’s mother.

I think

the point here

is to remind you

that you should

throw a fistful

of moist earth

up to the sky

to answer

the question,

“From where did I come?”

The Story of Stardust

Born Under

My astrology broke.
As a Cancer,
I had learned to walk sideways
and pinch when approached.

On the day I came into the world,
the stars above self-arranged
into the shape of a crab with claws raised.

It was a bad crustacean to be born under.

My parents tried
to keep me out
of the public school,
what I would always be.

All the teachers and parents
had their own ideas
of what someone should be.

They were all so worried
that they gave me a fake name
that would make my real name less, so that I wouldn’t really be,
and avoid becoming the result of what they thought was bad behaviour,
which was all I ever wanted to be.

I get a fake name,
and I got a whole lot more.

I was told
that I shouldn’t
be out at night,
that all the bats
and all the stars
were out for me.

One night, in fact,
the whole night
I was out alone,
I could see the bats
hanging in the trees
and the stars
from the sky above me.

I could see their bat eyes,
their twinkling faces –
and it was almost like
they were looking back at me.

They were smiling at me,
like they knew
I was the last person
that they were going to see.

They were going
to come down
and beat me up
if I didn’t behave.

I was so scared
I was going to die.

After that,
I never went
out at night.
Do you know
what that feels like?

My parents
were happy to hear
about my broken astrology.

When my mother and father
said to me,
“We had to let you go
because you won’t fit in,”
I simply left.

I thought people
who were afraid of stars
should be afraid of me.

It is not a big deal to be celestial.
It doesn’t make you feel too bad.

Born Under

Wrinkles In Time

“All our decisions, all of our decisions, are predestined: the past and what comes next will always be like this, no matter what.” — Robert Louis Stevenson*

\time passing is a vortex\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\a whirlpool\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\a seething event horizon\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
\\a foot falling in a empty, dark stairwell\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
\\\\\\\\\\a menacing echo\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\a deep blue sinking\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
\\\\\a misunderstanding\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\


Wrinkles In Time

The girls were left to inherit a magic to help them become

‖‬ Who knows magic anymore? ‖‬
‖‬ Who reads spells and incantations? ‖‬
‖‬ Who speaks charms and curses? ‖‬

                              I’ve heard there is a secret group,
                              hidden in the hills,
                              who can read the future                               in a cup of tea
                              under the light
                              of a full harvest moon.

‖ ‬In the hills
there is a hut
where the future
has a story. ‖‪

‖ If you want to know more,
you just need to talk
to one of the little girls
who makes the hills her home‬. ‖

‖ ‬But who are these little girls? ‖

‖ Well, not a lot of people know,
except the witches,
and oh! but do they know. ‖

                              The story is a long one,
                              and it starts here
                              in this little hut,‬
                              ‬with the little girls
                              standing on the mud roof.

                              They came
                              from the world of fairies
                              to study this magic,

‖ and when they come
to the hut
in the hills
they must stand
on the roof. ‖ ‪

‖ These are not
ordinary fairies. ‖

‣                               ‖ ‬The world the witches see is one in which the future is a place, ‖ ‬and the world the witches see in the future,…they call The City. ム      ‖ ‬As far as anyone knows, ‖ ‬there are no other cities in the world. ‖ ‬In the past, ‖ ‬there was a time when there were many worlds and there were ordinary fairies. ‖ ‬But then, ‖                              those worlds were destroyed, ‖ ‬and when those worlds finally disappeared, ‖ �                               the little girls left behind were shown how to stand on mud roofs and learn a witch’s way.                                                   ᐛ                                         ༼                            ‖


The girls were left to inherit a magic to help them become

Telling Tales

I saw a man on the corner wearing no shoes and one sock. He had screens for eyes and when you looked at him all you saw was yourself reflected back at you. He swore he wasn’t blind. He swore his feet were not cold. He swore he was still human.

I tried to talk to him. I said, “What are you doing here? Why are you here?” And when he looked up at me, I saw the other guys. The guy who got jumped on the bridge. The guy who got shot. The guy who died. I didn’t have questions for the other guys, so I started walking away. As I walked away I said to myself, “Why are they they doing this? What is this supposed to mean?”

It may have something to do with giant predators chasing tiny prey. It may be related to being hunted by a man with screens for eyes who is trying to find out what is life. It may mean like what’s happening in the world that you can never forget.

They may be doing this so as not to simply chase the prey – but to try to get the prey to chase them back to the edge – to give the prey something to hope for. To lead the prey to a slaughter.

They’re in our head, and they’re watching. And you don’t want to be right in the middle of that, doing the thing that you’re doing, chasing the invisible predator you call enemy.

For there will come a moment where the thing will end the way your children do not want the thing to end, not only by telling your story, but by providing a single and absolute interpretation of what was going on in your life. Your children do not want a single truth. They do not want a complete story told.

Talk to the eyeless man. Say to him, “What are you doing here? Why are you here?” Talk to the other guys. The guy who got jumped on the bridge. The guy who got shot. The guy who died. Do not walk away. Ask the guy who got jumped, “Why did they do this? What was that supposed to mean?” Ask the guy who got shot, “Why did they do that? What was it supposed to mean?” Ask the guy who died, “What was this supposed to mean?” Listen to their answers and tell their meandering stories to all the little children.

Telling Tales