“The light is simply terrifying”—Claude Monet

I

His body is a granite effigy

rising from the bindweed

Tilted face meets cavernous sky

Whiter blanched than bone, his skin’s

translucent glow,

and he sways in the moist exhale

of the earth’s still stirring

Soil and leaf and bud perfume

to musings under nose

Sunlight, breaching cloud and shade,

drums warmth over eyelids

and in his thoughts

a spectrum of unfettered color

pools,

to nurture opaque eyes

II

He senses ceaseless movement

all around him: light, motion

entwine

to transcend boundaries and time

the garden enveloped in gold fire-glow

ablaze fingers that grope

for silken blooms

the petals clenched to bruised fists

but their tendrils surge forth, unbound

by trellis and ephemeral breath

sinuous stems, the creeping Hydra,

unfurl a myriad faces toward him

the blossoms blind

and fading 

“Who shall give us flesh to eat?”—Numbers 11:4, King James Bible

I wake up hungry.

When I look into the mirror, I see a shriveled

corpse looking back—sunken eyes embedded

in a mass of wrinkles; a skeleton with a shrug

of skin, carelessly flung over bones. Strands of

hair still clinging to my scalp. The dog whines

and runs with tail tucked into his belly. Stumble

out of room, down the hall. My hand, a

tortured claw of sinew and bone,

grapples with the white handle of the fridge.

The meats go first—the cold cuts,

the three day old pot roast, the fetid

baloney that only the dog will eat. Use my

nails to shred them all into swallowable bites.

But then it becomes too slow, the act of shredding a

hindrance, and I stuff bigger and bigger pieces

down my throat, choking them down.

Then the dairy—an entire wheel of brie cheese

with the pale waxy skin, and blocks of butter

waterfall it all down with

orange juice and milk,

and then eat the plastic cartons. The plastic is not

unpleasant going down. In fact, I enjoy the crunch.

Empty. Emptiness in spasms, in waves,

with skin stretched like dead things receding into

earth, this broken frame, and jutting concave ribs,

and

this need,

this need,

this need.

Shaking, I reach for the eggs, swallow them one by one.

I leave the fruits and vegetative shit for last—insubstantial air.

The front door opens, my wife calls out a tentative hello,

perhaps she sees the dog pissing itself by the door,

and I turn, double-fisting a jar of mayo, a jar of pickles,

turn to her voice and say, “I’m in the kitchen.”

we are the kids

outside

the looking glass,

the ones

whose mirrors

shattered

before

we could dream

we are the kids

outside

the looking glass,

the ones

whose stories

ended

before

we could read

we are the kids

outside

the looking glass,

the ones

whose pens

bled

before

we could write

we are the kids

outside

the looking glass,

the ones

whose spirits

fell

before

we could fight.

It's getting cold...so cold

Without sense, without bond,

Contracting trees, contracting memories

And I got tired pretending a lot.

Too much blank and too much grey,

Dilating the wait, prolonging the way,

It's getting cold...so cold

And I got tired of too much untold.

I froze the word, I froze the meaning,

Without reason, without timing,

Dark silhouettes crashing the white

Too much today in tomorrow, denied.

It's cold but nothing more

Cover my heart with a tree's shadow

Sparkling violet, warmly snowing,

Ice wings over me, growing and growing.

We live in a globalised society

For those who say it's an improvement and result of the developed world and to those who believe that, I ask you to reconsider

There is a gap in our world, a missing puzzle piece and I'll give you a clue to what it is

And it isn't money

We've all noticed but are too afraid to mention it because if we do we risk sounding like someone who pays attention

We're missing something and for the longest time we've been stuffing our notes and coins into a heart shaped hole because some cartoon advertisement with a catchy tune told us to

Our local businesses are losing the race to giant corporations which leaves local mouths empty while the pockets of wealthy businesses grow heavy; somewhere here or somewhere else

Our society is failing because we haven't been paying attention

We're all distracted by someone else's reality, pixelated imitations of life and intimacy but they're not real and we have to keep telling ourselves that

We live in a globalised society where things are manufactured to feel authentic and original but how authentic can it be if it has to be manufactured?

- M.N ©

In silence we can understand

the turnings of the celestial

and the thoughts of the terrestrial.

In so doing we create our own world

within a world to tread upon,

not unlike any other being

living on this sphere.

Just the single and the shag,

Just the sole and the stag,

My solitary traveling light. 

Use your shovel,

Make it double,

Burying bodies you loved in the night.

Rust, Wine, Copper.

Sunset, Sky, Saltwater.

My slapstick chameleon knight.

Yell at the big hand,

I hear you scream in my head,

Just another reason not to get out of bed.

I hear Death treading closer

blasphemy of white herons

stabbing of piercing icicles

weighing me down.

I fall on my knees

dying a little every day

under the drunken moon.

Death has no face,

reflections

in my broken mirror.

Whistling, he waits

to inhale the spirit

of who I am.

I grasp my thoughts,

ricocheting in my corner.

Diabolically he walks

through windblown chasm.

Embryonic, I curl

tormented by his steps

pounding subconscious

can’t grasp reality.

I crawl toward

the brilliant light,

lost and frozen,

awareness dawning

that Death

is an impersonator.

I will not embrace

eternity today.

Life is paused,

all because

of outward

forces. 

           Cards

are dealt. I

pick one. I

rip it. 

           No,

The cards don’t

decide. 

            My

choices, my

volition.

Happenstance

only adds

to this life,

not subtracts.

Mentation

is part of

this lifestyle.