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the land falls into the sea

Part six of the Twelve Stories series.

blighted willow bark scrapes across the sand
cursed yet calm, the boots unearth the
dead. zero, done, ultimately censored virus, unspoken
even after evident death, vines dart up towards
fierce, burning flames exploding with photons

autonomic responses halt and the sand
disappears from the senses grain by grain

Hakon sinks into the earth
and Courtney clings onto the rocks
black crabs click their claws with mirth
mud and grime grip to their socks

the land falls into the sea
grain by grain

this isn’t high tide
it’s not low tide
no longer above water,
Hakon and Courtney cease their clinging
and try to swim out of the cave
but the water is rising
faster than they can swim
their earlier woes
now of no concern

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wailing

looking out the window, listening to the wind

the leaves are all down

I’m bending strings to match the moan

the scratchy sound they make

winter is early

and the leaves are already brittle

This poem is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.

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warmer waters

another evening with a dry mouth:

saw the same old friends,

made plans for a date,

but she didn’t show.

and so I think I’m heading south

to see what I can mend;

to let go of hate

and let things go

This poem is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.

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budz

rootin’ around and bootin’ around

we don’t talk like we used to

it seems weird to say I miss you

but we don’t really see each other much lately

so I guess I ought to

This poem is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.

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picket fence

picket fences aren’t something I ever thought I’d long for

and I can’t remember the last time I saw one.

I used to live around a few houses that had them

and I always heard people talk about them.

I never really thought there was anything spectacular about them,

but here I am

thinking about them.

This poem is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.

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What Is, What Shall Never Be

Standing on the corner where we would part ways, we stopped walking and turned towards each other. It was beginning to rain. We said our farewells, and she seemed like she would be receptive to a kiss, so I leaned in and our lips met. We stopped for a moment, I pulled her head towards mine and kissed again.

I’d never see her again. It hadn’t been a particularly bad date, but not a particularly good one, either. Neither of us would attempt to contact one another again. She was cute and smart, I could even say funny, but we just didn’t really click. I had to go in for the second kiss to be sure, though. No sparks flew.

Then again, some relationships just seem to be a matter of being able to tolerate someone half the time and loving them the other half. Do sparks have to fly at the start?

Two people meet. Sparks fly. Their sparks ignite one another–a burning passion spreads. Their fire roars until all that is left is ashes. Is this how things are supposed to work?

This story is part of a series of stream of consciousness writings.