Dandelions and Memory
She makes a wish on the seeds when she blows them, and she calls it “the afterlife of a dandelion." She does not know it, but my daughter has created a vision for me, the afterlife I want to be. I have told those who love me to stop my watch when it’s on my wrist in the coffin because it’s a monstrous image: the ticking motion of time mocking my inert form. It’s what I dread of death, my futile stillness in a universe that bends and shapes and whirrs around my body. Better to be burned and scattered to the winds or waves, that in being somewhere I might be anywhere, and those who remember me still might stand wherever they stand and make a wish as I blow by.
A Progression
I hold multitudes of ideas
with paper hands,
each a spectral amalgam dyed in
the fleeting, busy shades of life:
innocence, experience,
my weary-youthful brand an
artisanally awkward blend of both...
Ideas,
waiting for pendulum pens to realize,
and gift relative permanence to their
scattered echoes.
Ideas,
like an evanescent sand,
searching to find the small of
the hourglass and
make a grand(ly clumsy) escape.
To soar away with the color of
ideas; to taste the night beyond
self-wrought bars of radio silence,
white-noise-dipped thought.
For now...
Ideas rest dormant in the depths of
smooth hands.
And I’m here...
Waiting with
trapped breath, for age to
perch at trembling fingertips
and vein its way through my
gasping system.
I wasn’t re—
And then...
Waiting for neglected ideas
to be tapped;
and to spill carelessly-awry from
the fissures of my core.
Years softly evaporate.
Ideas rest restlessly,
electrically shiftless,
erratically dead.
The neglect decays all it touches,
and what once danced on
an irregular smile and painted a child’s
powdery laughter collapses on itself
and tumbles, resigned, into a black hole.
Ideas rest dormant in the depths of
cold hands.
Now unable to be realized.
#fiction
black lives splatter
paint me black
paint me brown
brush me up
while they brush me down
paint a smile
no, wait, paint a frown
canvas me around
give me a voice without making a sound
paint me black
paint me brown
paint me in lack
then paint me in a crown
paint me over every crack
paint me on the ground
it’s where my color has bled
it’s where my fists pound
paint me until you win a plaque
paint me, astound
paint me
paint me
until it’s you
and ain’t me
paint me
paint me
damn it, paint me
ever oh so vividly
yeah, make them see
oh won’t you paint me
and set me free?
Why write?
Some people can't wait to go to bed at night, to rest from the punishing day; some people dread going to sleep, afraid of the nightmares they might suffer. As for me, it's not so binary. I'm a little different.
See, when I go to sleep, I enter a world that's entirely under my control. I'm one of the rare few that retains metacognition while dreaming. With a brush of my hand, I create galaxies of stars overhead that glow with fluorescent magnificence. A thought is all it takes to raise mountains from the ground, build cities, craft a romance. My mind becomes master over a realm that has no boundaries, knows no limits. I build a universe every night, watch it grow, watch it flourish—I'm free to escape the tyranny of reality.
You'd think I'd look forward to this, which in one sense you're right. But each morning I wake up, and the colors of my imagination disappear into nothing more than an ethereal memory, destined to fall victim to the reaper known as time. The only way I can save my creations, to keep them from dissolving away, is to capture them with words—though, even language is a crude tool at best.
This is why I constantly strive to perfect my craft, to better ensnare the elusive worlds inside my head.
This is why I am an author.
This is why I write.
rivers of galaxies
she was everything and a galaxy in the sky
a mesmerizing sight i never wanted to look away
as i was nothing but an empty river passing by
nicotine smile, i felt like i could fly
bleeding lips, words that hurt so much to say
she was everything and a galaxy in the sky
blue waves, i can’t look her in the eye
drowning, searching for shore but theres no way
as i was nothing but an empty river passing by
fake diamonds, her voice caught me high
broken glass, pain has found its way
she was everything and a galaxy in the sky
blue jasmines, late at night her songs i cry
heavy fragrance, my heart became a runaway
as i was nothing but an empty river passing by
stars reflected on my waters don’t ever say goodbye
paradise; whisper my name and i’ll forever stay
she was everything and a galaxy in the sky
as i was nothing but an empty river passing by
- deathetix
Rewind
Maybe eternity is not an abstract thing that happens up in heaven, or even a universe that continues forever. Maybe it’s a loop of time and space. Life starts with the big bang, ends with and implosion, then rewinds.
young to old from go humans and Animals
birth to Death
reverse in again live We
bang big the to back get we Until
And everything moves forward, again.
Back
and forth
For eternity.
Dental Hijinks
Toothpaste is kinda stupid.
I’m not saying stop brushing your teeth, I’m merely suggesting to watch out before putting something into your mouth.
Most people focus on the active ingredient on the label, which is fluoride. To avoid the conspiracy debates this post doesn’t care about the active ingredient, so we’re leaving this right here and moving on to the inactive ingredients:
Glycerin - this is a pretty common ingredient that acts as a preservative for many foods while giving toothpaste its “paste” texture
Propylene Glycol - the same glycol in your antifreeze, this keeps the toothpaste from drying out in the tube not your mouth
Saccharin - fake sugar; supposedly doesn’t cause cavities though which is good because
Hydrated Silica - yup, those annoying DO NOT EAT pellets in microscopic size provide an abrasive to scrub the teeth (this used to be chalk) leaving tiny unseen gouges where bacteria can easily hide so they add
Formaldehyde-Releasing Preservatives - not formaldehyde itself, just chemicals that release the same thing under different names, but in quantities that aren’t even required to be listed on the label
Dyes - what else did you assume “whitening” was?
Studies have shown you can brush your teeth with water just fine; brushing should focus on dusting off plaque, not whitening, bleaching, or freshening up your teeth.
This concludes the vindicated five-year-old me’s tirade on why toothpaste is stupid.
Something new
What's a soulmate?
Definition: a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.
If this is the true definition of soulmates, how are we sure how to tell they're our soulmate? Maybe the feeling of being deeply connected?
How do they become our soulmate?
My theory: The stars.
In our blood ther's a hemoglobin that's only found in dead stars. There's stardust in our veins. This makes our blood turn red once it hits oxygen, before it hits oxygen, it's blue. As we all know, we're made of cells. Cells are made of molecules. Molecules are made of atoms.
What if, when stars die... And our blood is made from their dust... The atoms of their dust become us... And your soulmate's someone who's made of the atoms of the same star. Those atoms would have a connection to each other, connecting us with our soulmates.
But wouldn't those atoms be in more than 2 people? Perhaps so. So what if, you could have more than 1 soulmate. Your best friend since kindergarten may be one, your husband/wife may be another, maybe even your younger brother. Afterall, soulmates aren't always romantically involved.
Or maybe there is another reason. If there is, I am willing to find out and willing to listen to other theories. Maybe there's even a multitude of reasons!
The van is overturned, wheels pointed skyward, like a great, disemboweled carcass laid out for the vultures. The great metal skin, crushed and bent, reveals struts of ribs and shattered-glass eyes.
I watch as they pull him out.
The wheels of the van are motionless and still now, the creaking silent.
Silent and still as my father.
Red, white and blue shards of glass on the pavement flicker in synchrony with the red, white and blue lights beside us.
The same colors they will bury him under.
I watch as the crumpled vehicle is hoisted onto a tow truck, to be carted to its final destination. Abandoned in a graveyard for other demolished cars and trucks and vans, it will be left to decay alone.
I wonder if there is an alternate resting place for him.
Historic recurrence
every right claimed
was wrenched from
fingers clutched
to breasts
that would
deny the inalienable
to those
deemed
unworthy;
every freedom held
was seized
by desperate
blood-soaked
hands
reaching
for an ideal
intrinsic
not
granted;
every breath taken
without fear
with
head held high
with lips
that smile
and eyes
that need not
avert
was a breath
born on a scream
a whisper
or a gasp;
so many battles fought
with guns or words
so much blood spilled
in fields or on paper
so many ephemeral victories
so many hearts broken
so many arms
made empty
so many lives
forsaken
so many times
we see the light
only to find ourselves
once again
hurled into darkness.