《Poetry & Other Musings》 Cave of Shadows ¡°Cave of Shadows¡± by Sun Embers of faded flames form false-new fires; emerging orange, a faint heat. They kindle us and dwindle us, and yes, a xenial zephyr can help a hearty flame grow, but an abrasive breath can chill the fire like snow. Stolen novel; please report. And does anyone truly recover? Tinder, the hand feeds us, if we¡¯re lucky. carefully, just enough digestible tough that we swallow and smile instead of choke. Too big a log too soon, You¡¯re mother¡¯s a whore, and you¡¯ll grow up to make her proud, and a budding flame is prone to suffocate. There are little flame-doctors, flame proctors, flame coaxers and flame hoaxers, flame-fixers that offer an endless inferno of solutions and pollutions¡ª we collude and conspire, light our sacrificial pyre, sit in the syrupy succor of sin; we burn out. Some stick around and simmer¡ªnot burn¡ªEmbers. then they birth a new spark; little blossoming spark; cold, cold, cold forever. Dead "Dead" by Sun I like deadlift best. The silent stare, the dark, the dust, white powder in my nostrils, on my hands. The pain If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.of palms on my back (they slap), the moment of bliss, the emptiness, the teeth-clenching, mind-numbing madness, bottled-up bursting, tear-wrenching release of the sad, red hot that I harness, the blood rush, warmth dripping between my fingers, the flush, the black, the slam and the snap. And I¡¯m back. If I¡¯m honest (as I often promise), I like the escape. Over Coffee Over Coffee In a perfect world, coffee would already come with cream and sugar. Not yours though ¡ª you like it black, with little sweetener pellets; two or three; It¡¯s what they do in Germany. In a perfect world, we¡¯d wake up at the same time, and sleep better together. In a perfect world, I wouldn¡¯t have to leave so early, or at all. I wouldn¡¯t have to worry if our semesters align in Spring, or Fall. In a perfect world, you wouldn¡¯t steal ¡ª sorry ¡ª borrow the blanket The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.in the middle of the night. In a perfect world, in the middle of the night, when you stole the blanket¡ª or otherwise¡ª I wouldn¡¯t wake up frightened, cold, alone. In a perfect world, I wouldn¡¯t yell at other drivers, and you wouldn¡¯t have to practice stoicism, or posturing, or carry mace while walking down the street. In a perfect world, both of our moms would still be alive. In a perfect world your parents would value your personhood, listen to you, and get their own damn therapist. In a perfect world I wouldn¡¯t have been neglected, abused, cast out. In a perfect world, over coffee, mine with cream and sugar, yours with three little pellets and a stir, we wouldn¡¯t be holding each other, tears racing like scared children, falling in an infinite moment, over coffee. In Nomine Patri "In Nomine Patri" by Sun Wind billowed, blustered, buffeted the bluff, but the banner doesn¡¯t flutter much. I mark these words, ostentatious as the chrysanthemum on that fool¡¯s lap, in his other hand as he writes¡ªa sweet, gussied up love letter, no doubt. She¡¯s just gonna leave ya, kid. Stupid fucking name for a flower, anyways. Hope it blows away. Ha. In black water below, some pelagic bird snares a herring; a garand bolt bites a thumb. Second weapon safety rule, never point your weapon¡­ etcetera etcetera. Rain pelts the car window, all the familiar friends come to bid farewell, plasters the lover-boy¡¯s hair. One, tick-tick, two, tick-tick¡­ a cadence kind to hear; the rifle twists around. Don¡¯t brace, slow and easy, squeeze it evenly. Let it surprise you. Finally. Time to drop pack, buddy. A raven caws somewhere, and jerry¡¯s shell howls with the wind, laughing at him as it flies by, tipping its feldkappe. Not a nice day to go, but gneiss rock below, and a sardonyx pendant under the shirt makes a good enough dog tag. A sardonic comment: no one will come looking. No man left behind¡ª except for a list of possible exceptions. Maybe he could¡¯ve been a geologist, or a poet¡ª sorry pal, we have no openings for point men. Loverboy stands up, letter and flower tucked tight in the bench, walks right to the edge, looks for his green blinking light. Better stop procrastinating: hurry up and wait¡¯s gotta end sometime, and we wouldn¡¯t want to spook the ol¡¯ boy off the ledge. Easy does it, slow is smooth, and smooth is fast¡ªa cold metallic tickle under the chin. Loverboy turns round. He looks like Walter, or Chris, or Johnny, whiter than ash and deader than dirt, water wetting his skin. He marks patris, filli, et spiritus sancti, a final farewell before sin. A car door opens, a raven crows, and an old dog yells into the wind. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. the browning of butter ¡°the browning of butter¡± by Sun fires usually happen at night, for me¡ª that small details & inconveniences offend me the most, like the way google docs capitalizes the first letter, every time, without fail, as I try and my sister, and how I burned the butter just now, and I have nothing but cheese and an abundance of salt. & why is it so difficult to write a poem while making a quesadilla? My father taught me to make quesadillas: two flaps of tortilla and cheese and salt & crisp and now, sitting a country away, I am reminded that we will graduate from the same university, and that, at the time, I didn¡¯t think to ask what he liked to drink, The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.& now I¡¯ll never know. but it was on the rocks, because memory has a funny way of mocking us, you & me, & how history repeats, & I remember you taught me how to shoot, & that one night, for no particular reason, I made a decision that I still remember¡ªone of the few stories I carry with me, a heavy book, from childhood. Fires usually happen at night, and I wonder if grammarly was made with poets in mind, and if I¡¯m being too direct when I say that slow drivers should die, & perhaps I only judge things as they relate to me, and that perhaps all I really mean to say is that I¡¯m only indirect because now the quesadilla is burning, and the only thing I know about spanish is that two l¡¯s sound like a y, and that your mother taught it once, and I wonder why it takes intrusive thoughts to remind me that bridges are very high, and hurt and healing only seem to happen in cars, and that you cursed me with your solitude, and I¡¯d only commit theft for one reason, and I want to fucking punch the shit out of that mirror but I¡¯m frightened of needles and nurses and you held me down on the table, and I think I punched the mirror, but self-inflicted wounds have a tendency to punish others, and the blood on my hands isn¡¯t my own. A smell and the butter browned & I forgot to add the salt, but the quesadilla tastes just fine. Dear Jane Dear Jane, It¡¯s been so long since we¡¯ve spoken. As always, thank you for listening¡ª you¡¯ve been such a wonderfully undeserved partner. It might interest you to know that I¡¯ve broken another. I know we talked about stopping, and I promised you I¡¯d improve, and since then, the mask has even slipped a little. Only once, but it felt nice. Now it¡¯s plastered tight, congealed in perfect union with my flesh, and I think it might never come off again. Anyways, how¡¯ve you been? Odd that they call it a funeral parlor¡ª what a strange choice of words. But I suppose the home where the dead go to die must, on principle, be a peculiar place. I thought I missed you, but now that we¡¯re reunited, I¡¯m reminded of the claustrophobia. It hurts me, you know, to be this way. Intertwined with you, extricated from them. And why did it have to be this way? Inheritance? Or inevitability? Forgive me, I wander. I asked about you, and here I am talking about myself. I babble ever onwards until finally, all the bridges are cinder and crisp and regret, and you and I are reunited, and voila?, the deed is done again. Another scar added to my bloody tapestry, another stone in the sack. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Now that we¡¯re here, I might as well finish; I float adrift on a sea of shifting whims, pulled forever vacillating by some unknowable moon. I ran into one of them yesterday, my scars. She asked me if I recognized her, and I said I did not, though I did. She looked like you, although I suppose they all do. They bare the face, if not the features. Darling, I¡¯m so desperately tired, don¡¯t you know? It might be another hundred years until I write again, but at least I¡¯ve got you to keep me company. Perhaps then I¡¯ll let you talk. Yours, always and forever. Days pass like strangers in the street Dead but still breathing, they walk with closed eyes, blind hope clogging better sensibilities. Sire, how much time must I suffer to pass, and to what number must we count, before we choose to remember that dust and soil and song are all equal¡ª Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Equally home, and equally further from home than life after death, than love after the loss of love, and promises probably spoken with crossed fingers and averted eyes, like shy, self-conscious, self-condemned strangers passing shoulder to shoulder never younger, never older, lives paused in a perfect moment on the street. Feel Feel Anything to feel anything; Bite me, bruise me, break me, make me bleed, Curse me, cure my Defunct mind. Blurred lines Etched in discriminating exactitude upon my curiously numb Frontal lobe force me to seek something; fight me, fuck me, Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Gyrate upon me, gaslight and gut me, don¡¯t pretend you want to Help me. I wouldn¡¯t do that to you. Joke with your heart. Kink your throat like a hose, Laugh as your larynx fails to Make any sound that might save you. I¡¯d do anything to feel Nothing. Numb. Nurtured. Nervous that Organic foods and paper bags won¡¯t heal this dying Planet: really, I¡¯d do anything to care. To read of Plato¡¯s Questions and to give a damn like I¡¯m sure I once did. Reminiscing: there was a time. I remember. Walks to the bus stop, Staring up at the sky, marveling at the clouds, Taking time to take it all in. Unashamed to experience. Not yet convinced of underserving. Not yet Vexed by a lack of silence, yoked by callous violence, Whetted to suffer, to recover, to discover meaning in molly, X, blow, sex, pain. Pining for lost Years, for failed love, for trips to Zion and Sequioa and Catalina with you. Detroit I feel like there¡¯s a hole in my heart, a void in my life that can¡¯t be filled. I suppose it can and one day will, but for now I sit in bed, in this too large hotel in downtown Detroit, and am empty. I go out to fill myself up, then come back and retreat into sleep before it drains away. I pretend I¡¯m okay. This is the third time, and if two makes true, then three makes good on bad decisions. The sunlight peaks in at me, but I draw the blinds, draw a bath, and draw inward, pining with numb fingers at the emptiness, touching the edges like a tender wound. One¡¯s life is a mirror, among other things, and lately I¡¯ve been saddened by the reflection. There¡¯s nothing here for me, and the location doesn¡¯t matter. We pay for our tutelage with suffering, but what lesson am I learning now? I wish it were clearer. I wish I saw a path forward, a reason to continue, but I don¡¯t. I just feel heavy. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. In my other life In my other life I leap through leaf laden boughs, dancing and diving over rushing waters, rivers, under dappled light, high rooved woods, wind rippling the feathers of my wings. There is a temple, in my other life, where friends gather: stone pillars, a sword, the reverential tilt of a head. We gather, we fly, The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.we glory in the beating of wings. In this life I wake and keep my eyes closed. I pull close the blanket, tuck myself against the cold. Sirens wail. Or they did when heat threatened and we hid in bunkers, sweat pouring down dusty faces. In this life my sister asks, ¡°are we doing the dying?¡± and my father turns his head towards me and hides what I shouldn¡¯t have recognized as fear. Friends from Dresden hold hands with me, in dreams, and as we open the bunker door I see wings overhead, wings of metal and stripes, not feathers, and feel heat on my cheeks, and hands I held in dreams sink deeper into the black asphalt of roads, knees and feet all stuck, burning, smoking; their eyes fixing me¡ªthe heat, acrid in my nostrils; the smell, dry and hateful, fills my lungs¡ª I long for tall trees, falling leaves, dew and cold stone, the rustling of feathers, the smile and dance of my little sister, her laugh clean and clear as the river of my other life. The Same Traffic The same traffic that once evinced thoughts of familicide in my father¡¯s father a lifetime ago crowded the streets today. I discovered last year that you drove these streets too, tires in the same tread separated by decades. Sitting here now, in the car park of what was once your school, our strange, rediscovered acquaintance, I reflect This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. that you drove longer: from Palos Verdes down the hill, across the Vincent Thomas and the old Gerald Desmond, bridges I know well, and probably parked in this same lot blaring Frank Zappa, Fast Funky Nothingness and Yellow Snow, championing rebellion through the lowered windows of a battered car. Did you find comfort there, isolated in your strangeness? I wonder about you sometimes and if we share anything in common. I suppose we must, but you never knew me as an adult. I struggle to think what you knew me as at all. We were estranged far before I left, and perhaps that¡¯s where we¡¯re similar: our sour sadness and our regret. You never spoke much about your life other than to say that you opened the garage door to release the car exhaust that would¡¯ve suffocated your father, that you pulled him out and ¡°socked him a good one,¡± and that you never should¡¯ve been a father yourself. I ran away before anything wicked happened (Lynne Thompson Cento Poem) I ran away before anything wicked happened Why can¡¯t every choice just be a choice? Long before I came along If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. and looking a great distance, knowing He didn¡¯t think of history. Hoped Because I didn¡¯t go to her or synonymous with do you love me now that I think I want to know what you want in my dreams, sometimes in my waking. Again he laughed but sat so still as he spoke Always there I will honor¡ª& always¡ª Then jinxed another Breathing deeply and I am one of those¡ªa ghost, singing. You dont seem to understand you don¡¯t seem to understand what makes us human subtle losing slow living, closed eyes, reluctant breathing, remembered songs. lyrics that say i miss------------you don¡¯t seem to understand i might hurt you. i might forget why i--------don¡¯t want to be here. broken glass in the back seat of my car.--------my haven invaded, closed eyes slow breaths, shudder,--------kind water of my soul wiping eyes---------between traffic lights, between then and now,-----------between why and how do I move on? head leaning back on black leather, closed eyes, slow breathing, slammed fists, screaming, welcome to class, glad-----you could join us.-----------head back on white Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. walls, closed eyes. slow breathing------------i don¡¯t want to be here. stranger in a strange land. pretender. you¡¯re not the first-------to wear that garment. to don the cloth of my wandering attention. to suffer my affection. guilty predilection. who would read the under text ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± on white paper, scrawled letters, closed eyes, slow breathing. heart-----healing interrupted, fantasy corrupted by ¡°why,¡± why. why misunderstanding. why continue why-----return to concrete images. i sit in a molested vehicle cold unmoving watching a tree in a place you parked once-----at my suggestion-----leaves basking, swaying hands in my hair, praying, it worked for your-----blood.-----¡°promise me¡± works for mine. falling, fading, replaying, until i¡¯m gone, until slow breathing---------slow----------slow-------------slow until i¡¯m done. hands reaching, fingertips touching-----------dark eternity but that¡¯s unfair to you.-------------do you eat? are you still walking-----------running--------------climbing-----------trying believing------------in the goodness of wo-man-kind---------the self-induced changes to brain chemistry---------cold showers-----------morning light--------dopamine detox-----------achievement of small victories--------like one more day----alive are you still eating? still smiling, still trying---------still---------still-------still are you back with your parents in half-mooned, half-listened-to------half-how-did-you let this happen again, again? do your friends listen--------------do you speak do you eat?------i am losing-------all sense------direction---------may i quit at your discretion? you made me promise---------but you don¡¯t seem to understand i tried floating in a senseless chamber-------i tried breathing, sweeping my soul clean. i bent at the waist and let myself melt into the grass; the grass where you studied-------and i distracted you-------and you laughed and we climbed a tree and sang taylor swift¡¯s melodies------and i don¡¯t know-----if i can be here anymore if i can handle------this promise you made me make-----to myself Weeping, I contemplate divinity. Weeping, I contemplate divinity. Erect a temple to hands. No statue of interlocking fingers, no Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. Bodhisattva carved in calm repose¡ª My hands are crueler than that. Make it a church of cupped cheeks And creaking fists. An altar of aching Bones and sundered skin, a shrine Of regret and repentance. My hands are a confessional. Old and haggard things, Let these weary hands rest. Memories on Your Birthday Memories on Your Birthday Artefacts of your life: Duke, Moscow, the A. T, the Naval Academy, what came before Rick, Russian, Arabic; the longing for what you spoke, saw, and never shared. The short-fibered feeling of your prayer rug under my quietly questing fingers, sliding, pausing, stopping, looking up, moon-faced, at A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. you. How religion and the sanctity of a soul are traded for a moment¡¯s relief; how turkey bacon can make a family weep, smoke wandering up to touch too-high ceilings; how twenty-seven and thirty-two are numbers confused & discarded in the miasma of my memory¡ªof him¡ªof you. Motherhood is lost on me the same way half-learned prayers in languages foreign slip the mind like fingers of water on waxed windows, the same way I conflate the images of three houses and thirteen years, no different from the conflicting stories your daughters and I tell¡ª It¡¯s the same feeling as when you left for Cairo like a sparrow in the night and returned with a ring on your finger and the devil in your suitcase. Unidentified Fleeing Object Unidentified Fleeing Object A sign on a bar I frequent says "Toma!" To drink, or let¡¯s. In this particular bar, and when I feel like my name isn¡¯t enough I go by Thom¨¢s, an alter ego. The part of myself I¡¯ve reclaimed. New meaning given to old words. My mother named me, or such is the story The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.often espoused by my father, who claimed that he had no say in the naming of his only son. It¡¯s ¡°a good Christian name,¡± I¡¯ve been told. Neither of my parents were Christian. Nor am I. I only meditate on the insignificance of names and how I ended up with this one. It doesn¡¯t feel like mine. Names are tools. They¡¯re expected. My father stamped his name upon mine, right in the middle, as if to proclaim ¡°This is my son!¡± to himself more than anyone else, with a smile, a wane, faltering smile, perhaps possessed of some foreknowledge, a premonition of what was to come, an admission of guilt, pitiable guilt, an early acknowledgment of what he¡¯d done.