Not Sure If You Can Return This One
All I want for Christmas is a peek at all the wonderous and mysterious mechanisms that control the universe.
I want to hear the creaking, ticking, wheezing, and clanking of the infinite’s clockworks. It’s delicate machinery relies solely on the laws of physics to keep its gears lubed, belt’s tightened, and the bell’s ringing. This machine’s operating parameters are both intricate and precise, only needing to be wound every eight billion years or so.
As part of my all encompassing experience of the universe, I want to feel the raging, life and death giving heat of a trillion stars as they burn, flare, smolder, flicker, then die after sacrificing the last of their gaseous fire and light to the void. When the last spark is spent, only the vast coldness exists for billions of lightyears until one might feel the radiant warmth of another star. Like all of its kind, this star also ceaselessly spends itself pouring heat and light into the void. This younger star’s blistering heat might still be powerful enough to deliver total incinerating destruction to anything that draws too close. However, it also lends its light to the parasitic planets and moons that drift around it. These orbiting dependents benefit from the star’s light, heat, and gravitational stability. Still for all of its power, this star also burns towards an ending where it will eventually expel one final weak blast of warm and dimming ray of light into the cosmos.
As part of my glimpse of all that is, I want to see the birth and death of galaxies. I want to witness how seemingly random chemical and environmental processes come together in just the right quantities and under precise circumstances to create the first living cell on some new and cooling planet somewhere in the universe. I want to follow that cell and its dependents as they live, die, but somehow always change for the better with each new generation. I would like to see other newly born cells take on the challenge of life and change. From all of these cells I hope to see the strange and wonderful beauty of a flora and fauna that’s different from anything I have ever seen before. Most of all, I hope to be present for that moment after millions of generations and countless changes that the progeny of that one single cell becomes aware and has a thought.
As my voyeuristic peek at the universe comes to an end, I want to smell the ozone and the burning of carbon from the friction created when meteors collide as they drift through the universe. I want to breathe in the unique chemical heat of the friction that welds the two space rocks together to form an even bigger drifting form in space. I want to catch a whiff of the even more intense melting of the metals, carbons, rock, and remnants of organic compounds within those larger forms as they enter the orbit of a star. I want to smell the atmosphere on this new planet and hope that there is a beath of life somewhere within that harsh fragrant bouquet of melted rock, metal, and atoms.
That is what I want for Christmas, or a puppy. Whatever fits within your budget.
Hips On Ice
Blue is the
Hue of cold
Few are too
True to fold
.
White as the
Bright o'day
Light as the
Flight o'spray
.
Play is the
Way, she picks
Play of the
Day with kicks
.
Her Romance
Performance
Blurred entrance
For distance
.
Vying hot
Trying not
Flying fraught
Buying naught
.
Leaps up high
Keeps aside
Sweeps astride
Steep snow glide
.
Music's on
Muse is gone
Using and re-
'Fusing none
.
Careless moves
Fearless hooves
Prayerless proves
Flair removes
.
Danced too well
Pranced and fell
Trance and spell
Chants the knell
.
Thrice she dips
Icy hips
Twice she slips
Pricely trips
__________
Waltz dance: The basic steps of a waltz include three step counts: slow – quick – quick. This sequence is repeated twice to create a box step. Timing is: 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3 or 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
Winter’s Return
A gait as brisk
As the wind so passing
Bites my hands and face
Back again
So soon
Just like last time
But different as weather's caprices
And mercury is trapped in cylindrical free-fall
And red is its warning for me
As my blood curdles
To the helplessness
I feel when challenging
An entire planet
Perhaps I should stand down
The Maiden
00:10, Near the Docks
“When will you stop…” Detective Wu muttered, rubbing his aching hip as he limped onto the staircase.
“Not far from retirement at this rate.”
A splash. Someone tossed a bottle into the water.
“Stop right there!”
His hands were steadier than his legs, so drawing his gun and switching his eye implant to night vision mode was almost instinctive.
“Come out! I won’t fire a warning shot.”
Out of the shadows emerged a pair of raised hands, followed by a bloated man stepping into the dim light. A worn-out jumpsuit and a bag slung over his shoulder—Wu instantly recognized him. One of those washed-up divers who used to hunt for precious metals in the river. Now, with robots taking over, all he did was fish corpses out of the rancid water they still dared to call a river.
Wu sighed, lowering his weapon. People like this man worked for loose cash and had all the time in the world, meaning this was going to take forever.
“Knew I’d miss Tarlenn’s show tonight,” he muttered.
The bum slipped into an old wetsuit, grumbling under his breath, and plunged into the water to search for the body. Wu had a gut feeling—he’d find something down there. It always happened this way before trouble. Like an ice auger twisting his insides. And tonight? Tonight was no exception.
A few hours earlier, Wu’s informant had called, gasping, to report “something” dumped into the murky waters of Gray River. Wu had been about to settle down with his console and a stiff drink. But that damn intuition forced him into his pants and out the door. Sure, he’d tried calling his boss, but the lazy bastard never picked up on a Saturday night. So, no official divers were coming. Wu had to do things the old-fashioned way—find some lowlife under the bridge and pay out of his own pocket.
“Why do I even bother?”
It was a question Wu had been asking himself for 30 years until it faded into mere rhetoric. Deep down, beneath layers of cynicism and the filth he’d waded through in this job, an answer still flickered: I can’t do it any other way. But Wu had forgotten that answer long ago.
The diver hacked up a cough, donned his oxygen tank, and submerged. The surface trash shifted like a stripper’s chest when someone tosses a hundred bucks her way. Ah, thanks, sugar.
The man was underwater for fifteen minutes. Wu smoked, relishing the quiet. His mind wandered to what they might find—a middle-aged man? An old geezer? A woman? A child? Please, not a child. Gray River’s victims were usually the dregs of the cyber-city—drifters, homeless witnesses to the wrong crime. Sometimes prostitutes.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching car. An expensive retro model purred to a stop nearby, sleek as a tiger stalking prey.
“What the hell is this?”
Wu was about to approach and question the driver when the diver resurfaced, dragging a limp body with him.
Wu threw off his coat and helped pull the cold, slick corpse onto the pier. The first attempt failed, the body slipping back into the water, landing on the diver’s head. On the second try, Wu managed to haul it out, feeling something creak painfully in his back.
“Great. Now my spine needs a replacement too. This case is costing me dearly.”
A car door slammed. Someone stepped out. But Wu wasn’t ready to deal with that yet.
Catching his breath, Wu examined the lifeless form. A young woman, barely in her twenties. No visible wounds, no marks on her neck or wrists.
The diver clambered onto the dock, immediately demanding his payment. Wu handed him a couple of credits—plastic, old-fashioned ones. The man scowled, expecting more, but Wu ignored him, focusing on the victim.
The girl was stunningly beautiful. Her skin, not yet entirely blue, gave her an ethereal, mermaid-like aura. Long hair—a rarity in this city. Smooth, flawless skin. A slim figure. She wore a simple white tunic, no underwear. No belongings nearby.
Wu opened one pale eyelid, checking for an ID implant. Nothing. What the hell? Who is she?
The icy knot in his stomach twisted tighter. Something wasn’t right. Turning her over, Wu searched for implants. His fingers danced across her back, shoulders, collarbones, hips, feet—nothing. No modifications. She was completely natural. Impossible.
For a fleeting moment, Wu doubted she was even dead. She radiated life, not the artificial kind, but something real. He felt an old, buried sensation—compassion. Gratitude for witnessing such beauty, even if only in death. It was a gift he didn’t deserve but accepted nonetheless.
Wu reached for his comm device to call for backup, but the air suddenly grew still. He noticed the diver backing away, eyes wide with panic.
“Don’t even think about it,” Wu mouthed. But fear had already taken hold. The man bolted toward the bridge. A couple of gunshots cut him down before he got far, leaving a second corpse on the pier.
A shadow loomed behind Wu. He turned slowly, facing a figure with a blurred face—an expensive camo program, the kind only politicians or gangsters could afford.
“Easy,” Wu said, his voice steady. “I’m with the police. Name’s Wu. Let’s talk this out.”
The stranger shook his head, gesturing for Wu to step away from the body. Wu complied. The figure approached the maiden.
Wu caught the diver’s movement out of the corner of his eye—a desperate crawl away. “Don’t,” Wu whispered. But instinct won over reason, and the man made a break for it. Another shot rang out, leaving him crumpled on the dock.
The figure pressed a gun to Wu’s temple.
“Turn around.”
“Alright, alright. No need to get heated.”
The figure cocked the weapon. Wu closed his eyes, memories flashing—his cramped apartment, his dog, Tarlenn’s show. But the trigger didn’t pull.
Instead, the retro car roared to life, vanishing into the neon fog. Wu turned. The maiden was gone. Only the diver’s body remained. A strange trade, though not surprising. You don’t abandon treasures, but someone like that diver? He belonged here.
Wu lit another cigarette, pulling his coat tight against the damp night air.
“Hell of a day.”
Mary Anne Marry
I think I might plan to sing.
Tunes, drawls, stories and all things sing-song.
My voice might be gruff,
unfeminine and crude.
But the joy isn't gone from me.
I am the very thing,
no butterfly,
but more like a soft moth delicate in the background of hues of green and pastels.
Let me be.
Great.
I might be large.
Larger than life.
A breath of fresh air,
or a terror that elicits screams from my surveyors.
I am a being of subjectivity.
I think you might think that one so precious as me,
ought to be alive longer than most.
Or dead, deader than dead for the deeds I hold no remorse.
That is fine.
All is fine.
For I am no pet of yours.
I am but a wild thing.
A primrose on fields of gold.
Like poppies that dance in the fields to be huffed and sold.
Take me apart, fed back to the masses.
Used on up until the machine finds new glasses, in which men of richer standing toast on my grave.
Happy I'm no longer a thorn in their endeavors.
No more brave.
Whistle Cherry Whistle
Beautiful sparks of red against a black mask chirped.
Head twisted, half cocked, then turned again.
"Chirp."
I heard it flutter away, the shy little bird like a red arrow against the white fray as I watched plumes of air echo off my aching throat before the cold reached back in and stole my breath away.
I picked up my hands, staring at purpling and pinking finger tips to brush the snow away from the top of the porch.
Here.
Here was life.
Life as I knew it.
Know it.
Beauty in all the things high and low,
if only I was it.
Nature, so lovely, she'd steal your breath away.
Take it away, and breathe life into another day.
Oh, what is my life, but a soft borrowed breath aching against borrowed time.
For this is me, this is my 'life.'
As temporary as it may be.
And it is a Good Thing
Yes, Madre, I am breathing-- Listen
the beauty of a thought in the hallow
of an Amaryllis blossom singing
caught me short, as if placing second
in some marathon operetta
second running, because I'm catching up
in Harmony all these years to the Melody above
Yes, Madre, I'm calling it a Life--
And I am, breathing low, in surrender
to the emotion that has me rooted still
at the pump, that which is pumping blood
for some unanticipated trip between
these hemispheres I call one, and precious
--heart, or brain, or the soul that twines
the pause of understanding, our silence
in the hum, that withhold, for which I'm living
--a seed planted amid the Pine Barren
Yes, Madre, in awe, I am breathing just a little
