#burning haibun with horror pop culture reference point series

[flameswallower]

This haibun burns, but you will be destroyed in ways more terrible still

(after Helene & Asheville & gone houses I’ve slept in & Uzumaki)

I.

You grew up here and there among the train tracks and the weeds. It’s normal to find a tiny ammonite along a path; stone twist from a watery mountain range. It’s normal to find a stone arrowhead, too, or a grave unkept, rotten cross and kudzu winding over. You came to here because the rent was good, at the time, and there was a job for you. Over the years, you watched the summer insects decrease in number, decrease, you thought, in vigor and fortitude. As your own heart is decreasing. The job you do is heavy on even the strongest muscle. It’s normal to wake up feeling drained, to watch a lone mosquito spiral in the lingering summer heat, then vanish in a peal of refracted light. You came to here as a young punk. You came to here as an old hermit. You always lived in the ramshackle house here, and your mother, and hers. You moved because your husband wanted to come here. You moved because your wife lived here already. You wish you could move. A big city, a place on the wild coast. Fuck the danger from rising tides. Someone yelled a slur at you down by the crosswalk near the dentist’s office and the blast of his drunk asshole voice was so thick and hot and loud you couldn’t even tell which one it was. And there were the ill omens you saw in the rippling stream, before it became anything more. You live here because you’re an artist. There’s a kind of clay in the land you don’t get elsewhere. It sings in the dark; it smells like the inside of a mosquito. You make plates and pots with it, spinning your wheel. Your days are

normal. Ordinary with cicadas and green light through layers of geometric leaf. You’re stuck here but it’s okay. Ignore the foreboding. Ignore the newspaper. Ignore everything you can’t control. Do your work and walk your path. It won’t be so bad until it is, everything wrong with the world at once, the outside lifting the roof off your house to come through the kitchen, the roads cracking and sinking. The past flooding in. Job’s whirlwind picking you up like a doll, shaking your limbs, daring you to ask why, answering the unspoken question with a sky full of wrack and memory. When it’s over, you’ll all have to pitch in. Build the new town on the ruins of what was. Has anyone learned?

II.

here and there it’s normal to find a tiny ammonite or a grave unkept. As your own heart is decreasing, it’s normal to wake up feeling drained, then vanish in a peal of refracted light.

You always lived. Fuck the danger from rising tides, the ill omens you saw in the rippling stream, before it became anything more.

because you’re an artist. There’s a kind of clay in the land you don’t get elsewhere. It sings in the dark; it smells like the inside of a mosquito. Your days are

normal. Ignore everything you can’t control. Do your work and walk your path. It won’t be so bad until it is, the roads cracking and sinking. The past flooding in. Build the new town on the ruins of what was. Has anyone learned?

III.

It’s normal as your own heart is decreasing to wake up feeling. Fuck. It sings in the dark; it smells. The past flooding in.

[flameswallower]

alternate title

This haibun burns, but you will be destroyed in ways more terrible still

(after Helene & Asheville & gone houses I’ve slept in & Uzumaki)

I.

You grew up here and there among the train tracks and the weeds. It’s normal to find a tiny ammonite along a path; stone twist from a watery mountain range. It’s normal to find a stone arrowhead, too, or a grave unkept, rotten cross and kudzu winding over. You came to here because the rent was good, at the time, and there was a job for you. Over the years, you watched the summer insects decrease in number, decrease, you thought, in vigor and fortitude. As your own heart is decreasing. The job you do is heavy on even the strongest muscle. It’s normal to wake up feeling drained, to watch a lone mosquito spiral in the lingering summer heat, then vanish in a peal of refracted light. You came to here as a young punk. You came to here as an old hermit. You always lived in the ramshackle house here, and your mother, and hers. You moved because your husband wanted to come here. You moved because your wife lived here already. You wish you could move. A big city, a place on the wild coast. Fuck the danger from rising tides. Someone yelled a slur at you down by the crosswalk near the dentist’s office and the blast of his drunk asshole voice was so thick and hot and loud you couldn’t even tell which one it was. And there were the ill omens you saw in the rippling stream, before it became anything more. You live here because you’re an artist. There’s a kind of clay in the land you don’t get elsewhere. It sings in the dark; it smells like the inside of a mosquito. You make plates and pots with it, spinning your wheel. Your days are

normal. Ordinary with cicadas and green light through layers of geometric leaf. You’re stuck here but it’s okay. Ignore the foreboding. Ignore the newspaper. Ignore everything you can’t control. Do your work and walk your path. It won’t be so bad until it is, everything wrong with the world at once, the outside lifting the roof off your house to come through the kitchen, the roads cracking and sinking. The past flooding in. Job’s whirlwind picking you up like a doll, shaking your limbs, daring you to ask why, answering the unspoken question with a sky full of wrack and memory. When it’s over, you’ll all have to pitch in. Build the new town on the ruins of what was. Has anyone learned?

II.

here and there it’s normal to find a tiny ammonite or a grave unkept. As your own heart is decreasing, it’s normal to wake up feeling drained, then vanish in a peal of refracted light.

You always lived. Fuck the danger from rising tides, the ill omens you saw in the rippling stream, before it became anything more.

because you’re an artist. There’s a kind of clay in the land you don’t get elsewhere. It sings in the dark; it smells like the inside of a mosquito. Your days are

normal. Ignore everything you can’t control. Do your work and walk your path. It won’t be so bad until it is, the roads cracking and sinking. The past flooding in. Build the new town on the ruins of what was. Has anyone learned?

III.

It’s normal as your own heart is decreasing to wake up feeling. Fuck. It sings in the dark; it smells. The past flooding in.