aetherianessence

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 19.2: Morning Routine Dreams for Epileptic Teens

I don’t take evening showers, but I do

when grand mal seizures force my hand, because

I can’t be left alone and then near die

in morning’s desolation, no one there.

And so I spy sleep-desiccated locks

let product gorge them, dry shampoo, the works.

I didn’t grow my hair out just to weep

in Aqua-Net-less feeble early rage.

It must mean something, signify a choice:

To own oneself is power unrefined.

And so I stare, and so I shape and seek

to build myself how I like me each day.

From morning’s tangly mess, then, see arise:

I stand exultant, sunblaze in my eyes.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 19.1: God's Gonna Cut You Down.

You can tear her from her people,

You can tear her from this land,

You can tear yourself from head to toe,

But there’s no safe haven where you can go

On the earth, in the heavens where you can go.

In the brightness of day, you struck like the dark

Ashamed, you came masked, like they’d shield you from harm

Shattered the glass and just ripped her away

Thinking there would never come that day

When the blood and the people cry out and demand

Justice and right for their fellow man:

You can tear her from her people,

You can tear her from this land,

You can tear yourself from head to toe,

But there’s no safe haven where you can go

On the earth, in the heavens where you can go.

You claim divine right, a law unto yourselves,

Claim to bring freedom, while you’re ringing in Hell

Well, little piggies, I’ve just heard some advice

Check the temperature, please, cause you’re on some thin ICE:

You can tear her from her people,

You can tear her from this land,

You can tear yourself from head to toe,

But there’s no safe haven where you can go

On the earth, in the heavens where you can go.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 18.2: Synecdoche

Ears that do not hear me,

eyes that do not see my distress,

mouth that still tastes of the dill it had yesterday,

legs that do not dance with me,

hands that reach out,

 try to comfort, pull me close,

but I know their game by now.

Back, hands, back!

Before you snare me again.

That brain, though.

Look, it’s not that I’m sapiosexual,

and its curiosity is bounded,

but its thoughts are so cute!

Take me to the museum of natural history,

let’s see those Cenozoic megafauna we love,

let’s geek out.

Let me be the glyptodont to its megatherium,

let me be nothing but a highly derived landfish

swimming towards you, into you, inside you.

But I can't do that anymore.

It loves, but it hurts,

It cares, but it destroys,

It knows, but is ignorant,

It’s peace, but a weapon.

Maybe some other heart will draw near,

Some other eyes will see me,

Some other legs dance with me,

Some other lips kiss me,

Some other brain think of me,

But not that one.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 18.1: "Slow Turning"

She’s barreling.

Not so much blatantly disregarding the speed limit as careening through it,

past any reason, like someone stealing Elvis’ car for a cross-country joyride.

Guitar sliding playfully up and down, winking at her, daring her to act.

The next song fills her lungs, splits her open, viscera on display.

When I was a boy

I thought it just came to ya

The notes rip out of her,

flung out the windows, out the doors into the pastures,

towards the nearest cities, where people puzzle over the curious vocal rain.

Wasn’t in the forecast today, for sure.

She cries, alone, bereft, so far from what she thought she wanted,

But now, she confesses to John Hiatt’s bluesy drawl

(so different from his mild-mannered speaking voice,

a total change of state,

water zapped into raging plasma)

I get what I need.

Time is short, and here’s the damn thing about it:

You’re gonna die, gonna die for sure

John trills, jumping up to the stratosphere,

bringing her with him.

She should be suffocating,

the thinning air blotting her mind out,

erasing her very being.

But she’s never been more alive.

Tumbling down,

split open on the open road,

she pulls herself back together,

but different, renewed, rejoining the radio:

It’s a slow turnin’

from the inside out.

A slow turnin’

but you come about

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 17.2: Allegories Kinda Suck

I think, were I to live in Plato’s time,

I wouldn’t leave the cave at all, it’s warm

and all my friends are there. We have it all!

There’s food and shadow puppetry galore.

Let’s face it, is it really that worthwhile

To go blind half my friends who see the sun?

They won’t like me much after that, for sure.

And then, my status with my friends— it falls

Like I’ve just done some horrid social crime.

Nope, better to be ignorant with friends

Than face the truth alone in misery.

And if and when they’re ready, we’ll step out

And hand in hand, we’ll see the green and smile

But still remember, still be close, still one.

Bonds forged in stone and water never break.

And light and shadow will show us the way.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 17.1: Egg, In This Trying Time

I never knew there were so many eggs to contemplate.

Eggs of fire, eggs of whirling air,

showing memories, divining futures.

See, it grows cold, our world is cracking open,

hatching who knows what,

as mouthless beings stare unceasingly.

They perceive us but cannot understand.

But, ah, traveling maiden! Ah, harlequin!

Ah, shadowed angel and leafy, weighed-down crone!

In the whirling maelstrom, I peer at all this with you,

hold you close amidst the elements,

spinning life in the dust and night,

see, and understand.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 16.2: The Emporium Antiques and Used Books

This place took me back to my childhood.

It’s not supposed to do that.

According to the experts in temporal law, this is a massive violation of basic physics,

not to mention my privacy and sanity!

I don’t need memories, what I need- what I need is a future.

The creeping scents of stale cigarette smoke and aging books followed me like- like some sort of secret shopper.

I deserve privacy, thank you.

I am a law-abiding citizen.

Even if I wasn’t, what right does that scent have to follow me and torment me so?

Feet wasting away and aching as I stride the hard cement-

This is unfair.

Leave the past in the past.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 16.1: Jesus of Suburbia

The wind whistles through the maples,

more spirit than tree, a vocalist’s exaltation,

guitarist’s hymn.

For a moment the manicured lawn breathes in rebellion,

exhales normalcy— “this is how it’s s’posed to be.”

Oh sure, it’s still pop-punk slacker rock

but they’ve sharpened their edges a bit,

bass backing slashing established “common sense,”

building something new, bit by bit,

truly befitting the phrase “blades of grass.”

The impeccable drums burst forth,

not so much walnuts as grenades thrown

at American Idiots, the fascist dopes

who set this whole goddamn mess up.

After a few hours, the band packs up,

quiets down, no encore this time, thank you very much.

Bland pastoralism returns,

and it’s as if nothing ever happened, as nothing so often does.

But you know the truth of things,

don’t you?

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 15.2: Nightbitch

To

Bring up a child

Seems both the best and

Worst thing in the world, the labor

(Both medical and unrecognized), the

Ungrateful half-sapient bundle of joy and pain

Hands teem, he bosses—TBT

To when life wasn’t like this

But ah, little prince! ’Midst

Gerber-splattered walls and

Lost thimbles, lost sanity, I

Can’t help but love you, sweet

Bundle of life and being that you are.

Now, my husband? That gamer dude

Oughta pay his dues, parent too, c’mon.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 15.1: Concentric

With gratitude to the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo

We can’t stand still, we can’t stand idle, we are made to march

One by one, two by two, three by three we march

Circulating, circling, round and round in circles

Idle people stand and watch the circles, one by one

Two by two, shielding, march round and round in circles

Three by three, march round and round, and so on grow the circles.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 14.2: Grocery List

-If we don’t have bread in the bottom freezer, we don’t have it in the top freezer.

-If we don’t have bread in the top freezer, we’re out.

-If we’re out, we should get some bread, ideally honey wheat.

- If we get some bread, we should get those tomatoes and tofurkey, ideally bologna flavor.

-If it’s bologna flavor, it will remind us of South Central PA

-And the myriad townships, urban but not, only partially overtaken by massive chains

-And the sun touching the misty shroud of a pond

-And it gleaming like Icarus’ feathers in one glorious moment

-And the sorrow of ruined farms, the chasmed silos weeping

-And who mourns them? Who mourns the shuttered stores, the dead Lions Club?

-Focus, Phoebs!

-If we go out today, might it rain?

-If it does, we should go out anyway.

-If we go out anyway, we’ll live.

-It’ll be for the silos

-For the storefronts

-For the orgs

-For all those clinging to breath

-It’ll be something we all need.

-It’ll be an experience.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 14.1: Cicadas

I don’t want that bass bullfrog

Or spring peeper soprano

Playing in those culverts

And the drainage ditch, when it floods.

Singing and carrying on way too long,

Beyond all patience and understanding.

Nope, I want that gentle, chittering, homesick thrumming song

In my backyard I dance when it rises and falls

The real “Song of the Summer,” never a Top 40

Not even technically singing, unless you count thudding

Membrane sacs as singing.

And yeah, it’s scary when two unmoving, compound eyes

Stare dead-on. Almost fell out of a tree, I was so scared.

But really, it’s no more frightening than unmoving instruments

Making a pitch that’s terrifying, but also sweet and nice.

Sabrina Carpenter couldn’t hold a candle

to these ethereal weirdos.

A blessed rarity

Worth waiting seventeen years for.

Bringing back those eternal memories

Of languid leafiness.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 13.1: Holy Week

Repeat the ritual rhythms, raise up your hearts

Priest descends pulpit, flinging water, blessing palms

Does this communion and community bring peace?

If so, why do I clasp these anxious, sweaty palms

       In raging, wrestling, all-consuming silent prayer.

       I startle, jump, reel as speech cuts through silence, prayer.

When we were young, our teachers quoted weighty words.

Our hearts guard them. “If you want peace, work for justice.”

These words ricochet up and out, it’s late, we’re tired.

Look away, step back, keep a peaceless armistice.

       I think “passion” means mercy, freedom, longing, death, love.

       Paralyzing, invigorating kinds of love.

There’s a little feeling farmers and shepherds share:

Wild joy at being almost, but not quite, alone.

Knowing that there’s people down the road, communing,

Sharing, feeling small but with kindred. You hear lone

       Voices call for deliverance or help, and go.

       Push through the distance for a friend. Don’t stand there, go!

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 11.1: Release Your Inhibitions

Feel the rain on your skin

Thunder crashing, darkness answers in the deep

No one else can feel it for you.

Whistling, the wood winds around you, flute-furious, playing on as

bodies bend, bow like a violent string. In percussion taps you

Feel the rain on your skin.

Lightning static queries close, you’re torn in the torment

Tossed with anticipation, passion, needs and wants, regret,

No one else can feel it for you.

Deciding, darkness fades, fragile flickers zap their questions farther and farther

Away. They go, and where they’ve gone as you lie amongst grass, do you

Feel the rain on your skin?

When at last the grumbling murmurs fade, you send up sighs, gutted,

Breathless at the finality of choice and fate. Grieving fallen possibilities?

No one else can feel it for you.

The moment’s passed, the next stretches forth like sunbeams,

Time marches on, and calls you forth, implores remembrance

“No one else can feel it for you—

Feel the rain on your skin.”

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 10.2: House, MD

Quoting the great sage Mick Jagger,

He swaggered, had been sidling along

But what’s this? Supervising, she

Called his bluff, cleared him for the clinic

And she smiles, as he, defeated,

Sticks mercury under tongues,

Catches Vicodin like a circus

Performer.

Wounders heal,

Healers wound.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 10.1: Prescriptivism

Its and it’s.

Two chevaliers, for eons charging, chasing,

En garde!

One seeks and strives to possess, I’ve

Noted that the latter lives like the present, tense,

Ever evaporating, will collapse and crush

Their daring, joyous dream.

This drama? I don’t get it.

Negotiating between needling sabers,

Sometimes stabbing apostrophes,

At length bunching letters together,

The jousters rouse and face

With fatal glares

That impish, imperious gremlin god

Who sees, slays, slows, and separates:

Grammar.

[aetherianessence]

NaPoWriMo 9.2: Unanswered Query

No matter how long I sit in worship

No matter if I blather or repose

The blooming, bursting redbuds,

Outside the window, shout “Soon”

But no answer comes in, shows

Its face, spills some ink on my soul

In a lilting voice which raises it to Spirit

Is there one who hears a noise?

I don’t fear poised Silence, I fear this rut

Made by men’s ignorance, into which I slip

Alone in this forest, you reach for my hand

Preaching without words,

Drought freezes

And I see.