The Man Who Knows

shuttled through tunnels

like so much spoiled meat

snuffling and a-snarling

the beast upon two feet

 

Minotaurian presence

half-man the body shared

double the size of normal men

if anyone dare care

 

he had no strings to tie him down

or keep him on the path

this city was a festering sore

’twas dim and dark and draft

 

it was another of their tests

this smarmy grim cabal

no twine, no map, no lights down here

felt along tepid tiled walls

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TTOWBW: Last 4th of July: Plan of Attack (NaPoWriMo17 3/30)

20170403_131712Founder’s Mound on the common green

where heads of state still sleep

rings of concrete and of trees

be careful where you step

Circles kept them safe at bay

from rolling over in their graves

gazes baleful, turned their way

should the two dare aim to misbehave

Stood stock-still as ceme’try stones

as the two boys hurried past

the Red Eyes rose to their full height

to the old rules they held fast

Water from a Stone

The stone they rolled away

the same that the builders rejected

served, as a foundation

built upon this rock.

Carried here

buried here

interred, with naught a word.

 

And the boy did not talk

for some time.

 

The shoot, gave root

and stood as it should–

the willow wept, for those

left behind.

He went to them at night

never in the flesh, but

in speaking, seeing dreams

laughing amid their branches

arms drooping, scooping him up

 

cradling him into the dawn.

One Less Reader

I left the preceding page blank, as if in hopes that one day, in time, I may go back to it. Like a detective, or a genealogist, or Indiana Jones in The Last Crusade, taking a pencil to the page to find out what I’d really written there. The page before that had been written upon the last letter to my grandmother—something sentimental that she would never read—one last hurrah, an unheard prayer that I was incapable of uttering when she was alive.
I may have asked her forgiveness for not loving her enough when she still graced this earth, but her grace on the subject was enough on the topic; she’d not have wanted us to make a fuss over her, even at a half-hour’s drive away. It was hard to bring myself to see her when it reminded me so much of my grandfather. Unable to hold a coherent conversation (or speak coherently, for that matter) or even remember who I was. Maybe seeing her more often would have remedied that situation.
But in all my frailties, and hers, I opened this special notebook to write that last letter. Columns compact, like some sort of businessman’s ledger, red lines adding and subtracting the efforts made towards the writing craft. The words “Manual Control Log” donned the cover, though unsure as to what was being logged or controlled. Certainly not the writing. Five years and I still hadn’t filled this book.
The aforementioned grandfather, though this on my father’s side, once kept the log as some part of his employment on the railroad. The grandmother that had just passed was of my mother’s kin, yet she also had a husband who worked on the railroad, all the live long day. My father had as well. I did not continue the tradition and chose the path of the self-flagellating writer.
This notebook was part of “the story” in some weird fashion that made its way to the page as a distant cousin, removed from the kernel of truth of an idea, sprouting where I least expected it to, certainly not where I thought I’d planted it. I wrote about that to my grandmother, that this journal represented the inspiration that substituted it for that of my protagonist’s mother, and, just like hers (and my real-life grandmother) made every effort to be like her and his father, to emulate them, and for them to live in the words which he would one day write.
I was all too much for me, moments before the service began, to make sense of the last thing I would write to her. I was too busy philandering my pride, fondling my muse, trying to connect dots which may not even be there, to make it about her: it always circles back to me, so it does.
I asked her to put in a good word for me when she got there, to ask The Man Upstairs to show me how to do this because I already knew the story. Just to see how it all panned out because I couldn’t do it alone, and now there was one less person to pass it along to.

Chinese New Year

jacob

 

Got a fortune cookie
just the other day
and I don’t listen
to a thing they say
So I ate the first half
that’s how I do it
never looking back
there’s nothing to it.
It said:

(CHORUS)
What are you waiting for?
Start moving now.
Get your feet up off the floor.
Don’t worry how

Lots of people out there searching
at the bottom of the well
but what they find there in the darkness
I don’t want to be the one to tell.
Stare at the abyss too long
you’ll find it staring back
with hairy eyeballs and crazy teeth
ready to join in the attack.
And it said:

(CHORUS)

It’s already too late
when you turn to run
looks like you’ve sealed your fate
my, but wasn’t it fun?
You could be late for supper
you could be late for class
long as your not late to your own funeral
if you are get off your ass.
And say:

(CHORUS)

So I ate the other half
to make it all come true
then I took you by the hand
to show it’s all brand new.
Just listen to the words I say
don’t worry ’bout the end
this is only my translation
we’ll start a whole new trend
and we’ll say:

What are you waiting for?
Start moving now.
Get your feet out on the floor.
Don’t worry how.
What are you waiting for?
Start moving now.
Get your feet out on the floor.
Don’t worry how.
Don’t worry how.
Don’t worry how.