The suns turn, blind to one another?

No, circling, dancers, lovers, rivals,

Burning in the cold,

Aching in the numb,

Animals in the sky structured with

Dark and light, mathematics in the dark,

Poetry in light.

And we, blind to one another?

No, the stars circle, like dancers, like lovers,

Like our rivals, defined in Kelvin and men,

And so that stars hope, and the sky

So filled with animals and folk,

So that the grandest are held

In the smallests’ regard,

So shall the lovers turn:

Us, and ours.

I wanted to have something really epic for the last day. But it was just taking forever. Still, this’ll do.

Love, all. Obviously, I won’t stop posting, but this category will have one more concluding wrap-up post and then that’s it.

The music that plays in this over-grown bar—hard rock on cold nights

and that tune you always seemed to know—with a little static dancing in the new

neon lights, sometimes even the walls seem to glow.

In those god-blessed moments we can see where our folks spent

all the time when they were young,

as the music plays out like love in the sun.

But then, the stubborn old gents and bitter young sons,

they can’t keep up with the tune or in their moments of pain

tell themselves it’s not music,

as the chorus starts up again.

When the cool evening comes they’ll remember the sun,

And the love that they were convinced they were missing.

Though the rest may see what it was said there’d be,

We each see something different in the light off the walls,

And whisper a different truth into the empty halls,

While hoping and hoping for someone to call—

We’re all just looking for something to heft.

But the jukebox keeps playing; but when we thought we were staying

It turns out that we had already left.

Taught To Be Free

Freedom cost nothing but the chains are very expensive,

And freedom can only be seen through their keyholes.

we build

We build our own chains, throw them off and build again—

Left to our own devices, we will only fashion ever more vices:

We were never taught how to be free.

While her suitcase lies threadbare and still packed, Karen lies in bed and listens to her mother talking about her through the wall. This is all that she has left of her life: a suitcase full of pictures and a house full of rumors.

            “Poor girl,” she hears, only slightly muffled by the flower-print fabric wallpaper. “thank goodness she’s home, after what happened…”

            When she was younger, hotter, she would go to bed early and sit, just listening to her parent’s conversation as they talked about her. Only when the subject changed, if it did, would she fall asleep.

            “… such a sweet thing, couldn’t have asked for a better daughter you know, but couldn’t find a good man to save her life…”

            A good man to save her life. Karen rolls onto her belly, like she did with John so she wouldn’t wake him with her wriggling, and wonders what her parents talked about while she was away. Looking back with older eyes, she understands that she couldn’t have been the only topic of conversation, just the one she paid attention too. Of course, now she was the center of attention in the same way a corpse is at a funeral.

            The tears come, too easily. Perfunctorily.

 She wraps a pillow around her head, and fixates on the window.

            “I’m just glad she’s home. ‘Specially with the storms coming.” Through the pillow. She could never drown out what other people thought of her.

There are five species of canids in North America, three of which are classified as endangered. The coyote, by comparison, boasts nineteen subspecies in North America. None of these are endangered. Foxes are quick, reclusive and above all solitary predators, and the smaller of the two. The coyote, on the other hand, hunt in unstable packs or in loose pairs, and have been known to snatch dogs from right under their owner’s nose.

            Neither coyote nor fox is a naturally dominant species. Coyotes, in particular, flourish in areas where wolves have been eradicated, replacing them in a rougher, less disciplined capacity, and hunting similar prey, albeit less effectively. So less effectively, in fact, that human trash or domesticated animals make, like the coyotes themselves, for makeshift replacements of a bona fide counterpart.

            Foxes also fulfill the ecological niche that damaged wolf populations leave open, but in a much more limited capacity. Foxes are not large predators. They do not hunt in packs, and so larger prey such as deer or pets are left alone. They could almost be described as modest: they live only where the environment can support them, occasionally and infrequently stooping to trash raids, and avoiding interaction with humans.

            Neither one of them will inhabit the area of the other. They fulfill such similar roles in all their capacities, only their attitude seems to set them apart. In most Indian cultures, even the myths reflect this. The coyote is clever and tricky, like the god Loki in Norse mythology, often causing trouble that only he can offer a way out of. He is humorous but also greedy and desirous of things above his station, a capacity often offered to him by his wise, kind brother wolf.

            The fox, by comparison, has a rich Eastern history, in which the kitsune can transform into humans and back. In Western culture they too are creatures of trickery, but opt for cunning instead of mere cleverness. ‘Foxy’ in the United States has come to be synonymous with ‘sexy,’ though indeed both creatures share an odd affiliation with sexuality. While the mythology of the fox is more subtle, he is much more entwined with man, appearing in many stories, recent and old, as a character incarnate, puns in the name notwithstanding.

            Though they do not seem to have any confrontations, one can’t live with the other. Their roles are too similar. The fox inhabit the border-land, where survival meets dignity, if it could be called that. Flashes of red in the night is all that most see of a fox in their area, and usually there are plenty of rabbits, squirrels and other small prey around as a token of modulating behavior on the part of the fox. The fox will never use up its resources.

            The coyote is much more intrusive, living wherever it can, among us and off of us, hunting like wolves occasionally but not wolves–fearless. If pets disappear, coyotes might be the culprit. It fulfills its own niche and encroaches on others, presumptuous of its place and ultimately all the more successful for it. With Brother Wolf gone, the coyote remains a creature of hunger and the freedom to seek it out.

            But it will never live with a fox.

I forgot to ask you “Why?” before

you took my hand and

broke the sky.

And though the sky goes to infinity,

you never took me farther than

we could see.

Below us lay a looming light: the sun! such a fixture once,

but from above seems just

a light.

To our left, an embrace of shadow, and we dallied:

though the moon still seems mysterious,

not from distance but

from barrenness.

I don’t know if you noticed, but the stars are the pinpoints of my interest,

Who lost their light at my behest,

or flicker in the night, all for the best (though I know you took it grudgingly)

for my earthly moon and listening stars’ sweet intent:

(at least when the darkness touches parchment)

for there never was much to write about light,

nor about the suffocating lack in black.

But these objects we study,

Caught between us, the question, and my answer,

will never come in time but only in

your hand in mine, where you hung

us high upon the ground, the highest,

where so many merely lie.

Started a new story, moving away from sci-fi because I feel like I’ve been seperated from what makes a story, well, good. Anyway, still working on it.

Also, 38 Most Common Writing Mistakes is an incredible purchase.

We and the world are mostly water, similar

Percentages, by about 9%. The distance around

The earth is almost 25 thousand miles. If we

All walked in one direction, we would circle

It five times before we died.

When I run my fingers down your face and

Touch nineteen million skin cells. When

I say “I love you,” it is the combined work

Of seventy two muscles and several years from our lives.

Once, we were single-celled organisms,

For only half an hour—a time which would

Burn about 75 calories if we were having sex. If

This were the case, for that same half an hour we

Would have joined 100 million other people.

I will never taste you with the same buds for

More than ten days. All we can do is

Remember, and experience anew.

Maybe that’s why I never get tired of you,

Or this.

————————————————–

This poem kind of sucks, but I have a great idea for the future based on this.

Basically, the muse comes and goes, but I have something to work on when it’s back.

Working on a story, not sure where it’s going, but it’s going.

Anyway, the days go on. Nine left. I’ll try to post some poetry tonight.

She watches him at the bus stop,

And he doesn’t know her name.

She smiles at him when he looks past her,

And hates herself for trying.

These moments, they won’t stop passing,

Like the busses, day after day.

A player in the oldest story, she

Wishes the bus would take her

Where she really wanted to go:

Across the uncharted seas between

What we are, and what we do.

———————————————-

We aren’t what we pretend to be until we stop pretending.

I missed the post yesterday, that’s two for thirty, but I’m still doing thirty over all. I know it’s a bit of a cheat, but, eh, so sue me.

In other news, I sent off my first story a few days ago. I’ll expect the rejection letter in a couple of weeks.