So, another prompt

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Terminal Adolescence.

Is the phrase doctors coined when adolescents began presenting with impossible abilities. Colloquially known-- as superpowers.

Sit down and shut up

Do not doubt anything

Proceed exactly as you’re told

For we control everything

The government values obedience

Conform without question

Stay in lockstep with society

There’s no freedom of expression

Change starts with self awareness

Defy the foundations of normality

Begin to think and act for yourself

Be free to create your own reality

The rulers demand ideological compliance

But self awareness occurs from cultivated thought

We need to stay sovereign amongst the chaos

Or the fight to be free will be for naught

The sun is a splintered arrow

Lead heavy

Piercing the outmost parts

Eclipsed by wayward dark

And I relent

As my bone scraped frame

Wearies

That this slyly pusillanimous town

Desires to eat me up

For hate pants in want of company

And I say

Leave me be

You prison of flesh and dreams

I’ve rung the toll bell’s toothache heart

That I might bond outward

Where I belong

Far from the miserly lot

And closer to an umbrella of refuge

Spirited to shield my collapsed autistic brain matter stew

Off the headstone parish

And into oblivion’s sinkhole hope

It's a strange impression

Persistence of Memory

makes...

a theme so grande

one would think

it should be

painted across

the ceiling

walls and

floors

even,

but actually

it's very small

not tiny,

just enough

to humor

the cynicism

of the title.

11.15.2024

Pencils don't bend challenge @Last

I find it funny that there is a trope representing autistic folk as loners because I am anything but that. I am however, pretty nerdy. I have good scores on tests, but I don't really care about school. I would much rather go learn on my own and I'm getting really tired of math. My special interest is folklore. I could drown you in the cultural significance of a wall, any wall. I could rant to you for ages about the irreversible catastrophe that is colonization (I'm white as fuck by the way). The Aztecs are fascinating and I so want to understand their knot work. A fully knotted laguage as well as numbers, written language, sign language, dialects and so much more. I could asphyxiate from excitement right here and now if literally anyone could teach me anything there is to know.

Sadly, that is not possible and school is a living nightmare; the noise, the confusion of people actually wanting to talk to me and be my friend, the figuring out of teachers and vending machines, the constant misgendering. I have had enough. But everyday, I wake up looking forward to school because I get to see the tisms (autism friends). They have special interests and such a love for life, I can't explain it.

Each of us struggle so much. Yet despite it all, manage to get through a day, play some pokemon, learn a song, do some art, watch my little pony and be queer. It's an accomplishment. One for which we support each other. We each know how hard it is for the other. We know why they suddenly switch to ASL instead of English or why my best friend always brings a teddy bear to school. It is because getting through each day with a genuine smile on your face is an accomplishment, one of the best accomplishments. So, you can call me a weirdo. I know why. I know it's strange to bring a model dragon to school and sneak an extra writing notebook into class instead of drugs but its something that brings me joy and that is way too fucking hard to find.

The man chain smoked on the park bench several yards from where I'd settled. He looked over at me as I played fetch with his little French Bulldog for about an hour. I had no business in the dog park, really, being in town without a dog.

I just went out for a walk. The hotel had grown too small and the world outside just a little too large; the relative quiet of the Tribeca park was a nice compromise between New York City and me. The fact that it was a dog park was a happy accident. No one seemed to mind me being there, quietly petting or playing with the furry visitors as they came by to pay respects.

This man's dog, though. She was different. She took a shine to me as soon as I shut the iron gate and sat on an empty bench. She was a stout little thing, fifteen pounds of muscle in a seven pound frame. The little critter actually reminded me of the cartoon bulldog from Tom & Jerry in shape if not size. Her front legs were like oversized arms on a bodybuilder, with her rear legs like that same bodybuilder who ignored leg days. She snuffled at me and dropped a ball at my feet.

I looked up at her owner, and he gave a tiny nod. Permission granted to play, from behind a veil of tobacco smoke. I grinned, and tossed the ball across the park and the feisty little bulldog fetched. This went on for the better part of an hour, not a word was spoken, and I lost count of how many times the flare of a Zippo caught my eye.

Finally, flicking away his last butt, the man slid to the end of his bench and turned towards me. He stood, straightening a tan trenchcoat that fell from his shoulders like it'd hung there for years. Watching us continue to play fetch, he spoke in what I immediately clocked as a British accent. I'm terrible with identifying them beyond "British," it could have been somewhere in London or the countryside, I don't know.

"That ain't my dog, bruv," he said. I was surprised to see a new unlit cigarette between his pointing fingers. "Nope. I'm just watchin' 'er for a bit. Thank you for playin' with the thing. Saved me the trouble."

I smiled. "It's been fun. A nice distraction from...everything." I tried to keep melancholy out of my voice, but it always has a way of creeping in around all the edges.

"Mate. It ain't my business, but what brings you to the city?"

"Family stuff." I wasn't going to tell this stranger that back in my hotel room were ashes to be spread at places in the city that meant a lot to someone I cared about.

He nodded, not comprehending, but understanding. I gave him a weak smile as thanks for his refusal to press the issue.

"You notice how that little mutt keeps droppin' the ball just out of your reach every other time she fetches?" I had noticed, in fact. We'd established a pattern: after about four throws, she'd break in the shade, lying with her legs splayed so her belly would rest on the cold autumn concrete. I was comfortable in the crisp air, but several people around us were wearing sweaters or coats. The little Frenchie was obviously getting heated with all the exercise. Every other throw, though, she'd drop the ball too far to my right, almost like she thought I was sitting on that side of the bench instead of leaning on the left armrest. I'd tell her to bring it to me, she'd stare up at the empty seat, look over at me, then kick the little ball so it would roll into my hand. I thought it was a clever trick, but odd that she kept doing it that way instead of bringing it directly to me.

"Yeah, it's strange. Like she forgets where I'm sitting."

The man nodded, grunting in what I assumed was an affirmative.

"It's not that, mate."

She dropped the ball at the opposite end of the bench again.

I looked over that way, then back up to the blonde chainsmoker.

He reached into a coat pocket, handed me a plain white business card. I thanked him, looked at the card, and then back at him. "So, Mr. John Constantine, what kind of work do you do?"

He paused, lit yet another cigarette, and stooped down to hook up the bulldog to a leash. He didn't answer until he'd taken a couple of long, contemplative drags.

"Mate, when you ever need me, call me. I don't know what brings you here to the City, but what I do know? You ain't been sittin ’ere on this bench alone, and the mutt knows it, too."

I should have felt a cold chill, but instead, all I felt was happy.

it is one of my heart's desire

to be nestled into you without end

for I am the warmest there

filled with the most calm

being by your side has found me in surrender

and it was one of the rare moments

in my life

that I had NO reason to fight

and maybe I had said it way too many times

(perhaps)

but surrendering to you... to us

in those moments when I lay by your side

it always has the same flavor

the same taste

somehow, it always feels like coming back home

you saw specks of light, fireflies,

falling through the air under the

street lamps, illuminated by the

headlights. but they were only

falling leaves.

they were just as beautiful.

you remembered that you

are human. there were two

accidents on the same road,

different cars, one on the way

there and one on the way back.

it gets dark so early and why

does that instill a terror in you?

you were reminded that you

are your own person, that

your existence does not depend

on another. the barista recognized

you, and - human kindness -

you were seen. all it took was for

him to ask you what's on your

jacket, and recognize the water

lilies on your wallet.

human minds are simple and

stupid. you were pleased, you

felt better about being alone.

you're not just a body or a

floating mind, and you've

always felt safe here, among

your people, in a coffee shop

you're moving away from.

you are not an accessory.

you have free will.

you do not lose personhood

because you are alone.

words were easy, you were alive.

things fell into place: you knew

where to look, even when you're

a little blind. you were brave in

ways no one else finds brave.

you found a friend, two, three.

you were not alone, you did

not drown. the stars came up,

the moon peeked through the

rainclouds, you parked your

car on the same street as the

person you knew the most, the

reason you'd crawled out of your

house in the first place. and in

the rain, he said a quick casual

bye, like it wasn't the last time

you might ever see each other

again.

sometimes you are too scared

to live, and sometimes

the universe gives you a hug

in the form of strangers

because it is ok, you are alive,

and you, alone and together,

are human.

11.14.24

“I have wondered if thee will marry,” his father said.

Elnathan looked up from his rabbit stew.

“It is a part of life,” Samuel Holm said, and he ate another bite.

They had built this house together. They had mortared the stones for the foundation, hewn the floor joists, notched the logs they stacked and chinked with rocks and straw and clay. They shared one bed. Through all of it, they had never spoken of marriage, love, or any future beyond tasks to perform. They had left their first farm five years ago, and in that time, Elnathan had heard six directives from his father for every word of conversation.

He studied the older man in the fading dusk, debating whether his father meant to test him. “The Friend says men should live in the Spirit, not in the flesh,” Elnathan said.

Samuel Holm lifted his bowl to his lips. Elnathan noticed his father’s hands trembling again, as they had since his illness the preceding year; Samuel Holm had spent less time carving or whittling since. He wiped his arm across his graying beard to erase the tell-tale drops of broth. He folded his hands on the table and watched them, as though guarding their stillness. “Thee is nineteen. If thee did not shave it, thy beard would be full by this time.”

“Men shave their beards. Thee is the only man I see to wear one.”

“Thee would think of little else beside marriage, if thee lived in any other place,” Samuel Holm continued. He lifted his eyes. “There are things important to a young man.”

Elnathan laughed. “Thee think me a young boy indeed, if thee think to explain such things.”

Samuel Holm returned his eyes to his hands. One of their cows lowed nearby.

“Thee was not so old when my mother left time,” Elnathan said, “and thee never thought to remarry.”

“That I did not discuss the matter with my son does not mean I did not of think it.”

Elnathan watched his father, awaiting further words, some sign. Samuel Holm sat quietly with hands folded on the table he had made.