Footprints From The Day Before - Very Short Fiction

Face and city reflected in the stars through glass. The dishwasher lulls to sleep. Walls fade to foam, the trees turn to oceans. In whispers and hum. On the pink edge of haloed sky churning and blaring safety from soapy waters crashing inside its factory. Isotropic. Refineries sweating and bloated blending currents dusty, aged quiet, footprints from the day before. The hovering swarm attacks and sleeps with frequencies. To the soft silence. In the soft silence. Movement. In the black between reflections, the sight of an escape. To the shadows deep within molecular clouds under water where no stars are seen. No importance. No power. Out there is inside brains, infinities captured by the humming lullaby. Pleasing painless aloof. Branches extending into wind, into clouds, mountaintops and ghettos, rain breathing capital to the binding fulcrum, dripping to roots, to soil. Evaporation. Reflected in eyes and hands wrapped in discipline and vacations.

Washing the face under cold water. Nothing. The known shock dripping off the nose. Under eyelids, the mirror image of the self-reflection laced with imaginations seen before. Somewhere. Like that fucking train, the faraway moan and wail tending senses that long for someone else’s purpose. Loneliness that resides inside the barren desert scarred by train tracks across you, and the ways that have been seen, and will become. The thick sap of bullshit seeping from these words. The difference between Saturday and Monday. Your world inside the dishwasher. Time and the meaning of life and the pursuit of pleasure. Its humor. The unreal that populates the echoed loops I see and think through. Filters, the blue sky, the mountains. Don’t care. Green pastures, rain and hail pelting your things. Its happiness. Silence, why? Stories and stories to poems to words that point to silence.

Particles, bits of food part consumed, washing, washing. Static and snow. Decorations inside industrial machinery underneath dim fluorescence, cracked spines that light recognition. Feedback. Revolving circadian rhythms walking, fearing, sleeping, cheering. Entertainment, Farming, Reverberating. Edible displays fucking spaces of hypnotized assets; beings merchandise. Hearing, seeing, overstepping tracks of futures, from the day before. Transparent. The paths of airplanes into stars. Porn with love from love. Museums under shoes of the masses. And electrocuted moths with pavement. Separation. Nighttime dreams that radiate in morning antitwilight shadows of colors speaking against bloodshot eyes of shift workers’ diluted residence in waning incandescence. Value. Influence recycled into air, into wires, into ordinary blood bleeding everywhere. All over. Flowers from fossils growing higher and beyond the ceilings, towers, orbits, and time, to abstractions, freedom, majorities, and excess. Gone. Disappeared under the weight of footprints existing, only nowhere.

Dirt and Dark - Very Short Fiction

On blood and concrete the body. Fear. The body, a vanishing point on the horizon.

Under the summer night of street light, old buildings; hardened like the city that made its needs and torment. It was built to collapse inward from its own weight of thought, NoIse, instinct, QuIet. Now. From clenched fists, from boots, from 4 soldiers of the zeitgeist, imbuing ethos into already rubbled debris. The city runs away from the defeated mind; the body laying in its shadow of/and the slow fade to nothing. To death, final freedom, to Being gone and away.

Years

Working. The body works for others. Against.

Awake/Alive on the inside of all things - simulacrum, concrete ambitions of money to end. Patterns of power and The paradigm. Places on the outside living in dreams of carved out geometry of childhoods, or Being lost and home at once in the vacancy of mental illness. So it would seem To Be, wandering dirt roads and clouds at sunrise lawless of will, of the vibrant emptiness that is dark of knowledge and waking reality. Asleep 1/3rd. Gone and away from infinite desire. From pleasure. From diversion. From the taste of blood and the anxiety of need. The body leaves the city inside its reflection; climbing out for years, gone. Being.

Away, in dirt and dark. Walking

Early Morning Balloons - Very Short Fiction

From night are stars shining through. Ancient light in a wash of unknowing black. The AM that is young, naïve; follows no heart. Unshaped, beautiful; the born mind knows no imbalance, distraction. From time and place, the beginning of one Being each other. The same. Self. Under the lens of big, open skies that cradle the infant new. It is faint, weak, barely there, at once powerful in it’s distant burning. Signs; waves of color that touch the soft calm. Vast, twilight scattered, cool. And shadows begin; symmetry, form, the coming of day; the path has been crossed. The black will fade to Sun, the faithful stars will go in hiding veils.

Breathing sky. I and the flamed horizon. Places. Light, set in vision. Upward to stars and planets framed in books. Upward to pilots navigating balloons in morning brisk. Solid determined, young flights. Places found in the room of me. In a time. A recollection of past. Soaring hot air balloons that are breathed into, upward in colors, in slow steps above fields and hills. They move graceful, placid. They are morning dreams of I, against big music that propels the windless navigation. Moving everywhere at once, the scene explodes in every direction, every path, every possibility. The music is slow, quiet, at times it is silence.

Together In One - Very Short Fiction

I will be.

Or else this room. This being and place of rest; sweating reprieve from toil and pursuit. This middle. Factory break room of all. And me, inside them. The common river in the nightshift of desert plains. Coming to mid-point idle, dinners and lunches. In trance and slow passage to bitter aging meanness, we sit and eat, and stare. Out windows into street light and dark. Windows that sieve light, that reflect half in mirror, looking inside this room - fluorescent haze and night. Breathing inside this work of power and content; the calm anxiety. Breathing in the medium room of adulthood, sailing away in vessels on oceans never to return – to die in the waters, murdered by dreams, against purgatory rooms. I, and my opaque reflection in glass. To disappear in things, into a dark star. Invisible, restless.

The Belt of Venus

I’ve always had a affinity for early morning. It’s quiet and serene, and I seem to be in the best mood of the day during the morning twilight. Part of this is the beauty of the sky transitioning from night to day in relatively quick phases that produce all kinds of cool phenomena. One of those phenomena is called, The Belt of Venus.

Looking west during sunrise

‘The belt’ is a pinkish ring that’s also called the antisolar arch. It surrounds the horizon from the outer points of the rising or setting sun and is most visible directly opposite of the sun just after it sets or just before it rises with little or no clouds. The pink color of the belt is the reflection of the setting or rising sun on the other side of the horizon. And the reason sunsets and sunrises are more red than blue is because the sun’s light is farther away during twilight, which makes the light more reddened with longer wavelengths because it has to pass through more layers of atmosphere.

Looking east during sunset

The dark part underneath the pink belt is called the antisolar wedge. This is the actual shadow of the Earth reflected back onto the atmosphere.

In my opinion, The Belt of Venus has always been underrated when compared to the rising or setting sun. It’s all part of the same phenomena, but knowing why the sky turns colorful will surely impress any date. So lets all give the Belt of Venus its long overdue viewing and knowing and go out and see it!