In Contrast to Meaning

 

In contrast to meaning

Words and ideas meet, and in a symbol make: The sound and shape of thought to speak and show again the story new. Told before now written afresh appearing novel. A past idea caught, collected like the dew in a decompression of time, space, and energy as though present and refracted by the rising sun and absent by the heat of day a vapor, a writing, a tracing of the changing bodies in which ideas dwell.

Song

A word echoed by an ear only heard in the heart and searches for meaning—only—when all else fails.

I Like to Plant Pumpkins

Tomorrow

I like to plant pumpkins on the fourth of July. I do not like fireworks, crowds, or parades. I prefer the quiet of the garden. The dry, heat packed dirt. The chance to grow something new.

I like the feel of your pulse in my hand. The quiet beat that gives me hope. This is not the night.

 

Putting Down Roots

I like to plant pumpkins on the fourth of July. I do not like fireworks, crowds, or parades. I prefer the quiet of the garden. The dry, heat packed dirt. The chance to grow something new.

The tall already harvested sweet corn shadows me. Beans bloom and beckon bugs. And in the dying barley I find a place to plant a tree as well.

 

Harvest Moon

I like to plant pumpkins on the fourth of July. I do not like fireworks, crowds, or parades. I prefer the quiet of the garden. The dry, heat packed dirt. The chance to grow something new.

Little moons on the ground in the fall they gleam. The galaxy of my universe small, travels far on ice cream plated pumpkin pie. Warming a candlelit soul with the smile of knife sharpened teeth.

 

In another life we worked for the mob.

In another life we worked for the mob.

 

We are the people from the old country. The place before here. Some say we have old souls. That we come from another time and carry the weight of a multitude of lives. The legends are kind. For we smile when we hear your scream. Laugh, when you beg. And just when you feel we might let you go. With a grin we cut your heart out. To see if it is real. And when we are done and the last drops of your blood spill out, into the silver saucepan, next to the pile of perfectly trimmed fingers, toes, nipples, and ears. (We are barbarians, but we do have style.) You will laugh for lack of a response. You thought you might enjoy this but we are writers and this, you must not forget.

 

 

From a collection of short stories in development: Stories Best Left Untold