Chimneys: Responsibility

6 10 2010

So today was “free writing” day and I hoped to focus on the concept of “sucess” but instead found inspiration from numerous chimneys that line the skyscape and the recent image in the Mt. Xpress….

Stone stacks hold sky up till smoke arrives blurring horizon. Beaked black swifts sweep past smoke into darkness —a hollow chamber– a safe haven. Against soot filled crevices, feet clutch a stable pause. Respite for these birds rests not in clean breezy branches but in a column of stilled dust. The shelter for such events celebrates moments of its true usefulness. The chimney sighs and sneezes heavily through its daily toil of releasing the excess of fire’s life. Layers of ash repetitiously line the inside of this body. Spider webs hold fallen leaves, nuts, and lichen—saving them from a quick burial in this black. At night after the smoke sleeps, creatures creep upon the edge looking for a find. Discovering nature’s debris is not an occurrence but a vital mundane habit. The chimney never laughs. Burned desire and hungry stomachs always lurk too close. Responsibility to contain such unfulfilled hunger prohibits this chimney from crumbling onto itself.


Obsession: Raven’s Milk

29 09 2010

Double clicking. Pecking at the keyboard. Automaton of attention. Solely directed towards you—a word, an imagined lover, friend, a foreign country, an image, a myth. Repeat. Repeat. Search. Search. Still intensity lingers until frustration mounts like boiling milk. Given enough air, the milk lies flat and slowly becomes putrid and rancid. Reflection brings frustration of wasted time of an unrelieved reception. Unmet expectation reeks of expired cream. Obsession a highway of continuous -gasm fades into a horizon of ravens.

A plume of black soaked in unmet expectations. Beak scratched. Talons taken. Feebly lies the body of the bird once majestic. Entangled in wires of obsession. Squaks speak of silenced desire as night sneaks upon the wounded soul. Nearby those untouched fly with freedom. The branches bleed green in moonlight as the weight of the free break the fragile covers of the forest. Moonlight paths trace the stars grace to a pond of milk, a pool of night’s orgasm. Glistening feathers moving muteless and weightless through brisk bright darkness close and glide to shore. Startled to see such murkiness, distorted reflection frustrates free soul who attacks blurred self.