You say forever and I wonder if you know what the word really means, if you've felt the whole tremendous weight of it pressing down on you; as a promise or a curse, it weighs the same. Forever. I know forever; I have felt the death of a thousand stars or more and have heard the groan and the creak of the ground beneath your own brief feet take on many thousands of pitches, unimaginable to your weak ears, as the ground shifts and reshapes itself, and I will see this all again, every stars fiery rebirth and pale, mewling demise. Every form the earth has taken it will take again, every senseless rock will inevitably shift itself just-so, a
The stained-glass sky
splinters.
I tap it again,
and it shatters,
clatters to the ground
humptydumptification
at its finest,
a thousand pieces
strewn across the grass.
All the kings horses
and all the kings men—
I can put this sky back together again.
But no, I can't;
this sky is so broken,
it will not be fixed by being whole.
But still, I try.
I jam the pieces together,
smudge glue on the clean clear surfaces,
but they stick to my hands instead,
which prickle
as I peel away false skin, and
smell of sunshine,
smell of rainclouds.
Someday I will clean this filthy sunset
from underneath my fingernails.
I stomp my right foot, and it sinks
through the floor. The earth
trembles beneath me, around me.
I am possessor
of a hundred thousand names.
They flit far beyond me,
lovely and terrible,
on wings of glass.
Funny little man, most call me,
and I am safe.
Rumpelstiltskin, said this one,
and the name flew at me,
pinned itself large against my chest.
I clutch my left foot in my right hand
and the fabric of me
begins to split up the middle,
the threads I have spun up
so carefully,
all flax and gold and hope,
fray, and I am loose, tender.
A tug, and there will be nothing left of me.
I tremble like the earth.
Nothing left of me
Standing on the Corner... by monkeyelf, literature
Literature
Standing on the Corner...
of 58th and University
there was a time
when the only thing to see here
was this broad-shouldered sky,
galloping off and off 'til its back
where it started
the concrete, now, juts
ever higher.
the sky is rationed,
rounded up and parceled off,
a distant relic.
people will pay good money
for a piece of this sky.
I stood, yesterday,
half-way there;
but all the stars had
fallen, and lay scattered
beneath me, endless glittering husks
some careless Hansel left behind.
there was a time
when, if you stretched
you could reach the sky,
break off a bit, put it in
your sock drawer, leave them all a fresh
sweet green scent
There's
nothing dead
about this barn—
though the skin of it
peels slowly off
to reveal innards
(all rustling, rusty shadows)
though besieged on all sides
by grasses trees vines
desperate for its patch of sunlight
though worn by
more years than
its blink of an eye builder
ever imagined—
still, it stands
with terrible steadfastness
under the weight
of a hundred thousand breaths
and although
it never feels any lighter
every night it disgorges
a mass of fluttering dark wings
to say: I am not yet dead.
Shh
Shh
Shh
scraping wings
luminous in the moonlight
sing to me,
a harsh lullaby
I am wide awake.
There is a cage
over this border
between my little kingdom
and the great wild woods
and in it I have captured
this fallen chip of the moon,
drawn with promises
of its long-lost kindred
and trapped between black mesh
and cold glass.
I am the wicked witch in this tale,
I could let this moon-spirit in,
set the trap,
watch it die in an instant.
But I do not mean to play this role.
I would free this,
send it to dance with the stars,
but I am trapped,
crushed beneath blankets,
so I lie,
wide awake,
and liste
You stop short.
The impossibly old, twisted little juniper-tree of a man gazes up at you imploringly.
I-Im sorry, do I know you? In a moment youre berating yourself for not thinking before you speak. You have the feeling that hes mad. But you have to say something, right?
He thrusts a package at you. Its tiny, wrapped in very, very old brown paper, the kind they use for shopping bags. You stare at it. What if it contains something horribly dangerous? You think again, hes probably insane.
You have to squash feelings of regret and pity as you see him stiffen. Aye, mlady. His accent
At night my brother danced.
It was at these times I loved him best. I loved him in the morning, when he laughed the sun awake; I loved him in the daytime, when he smiled the sun its light; I even loved him in the evening, when he wept away the sunlight, each tear in its fall a ruby for an instant, only to shatter as it hit the ground. But most of all I loved him in the starlight.
He was long and pale and graceful, my light-brother, and in the starlight his golden hair turned white and his fair skin turned translucent and he glowed as he danced across the snow. As I watched him all those nights I imagined I could see the faint outline of Moo
You say forever and I wonder if you know what the word really means, if you've felt the whole tremendous weight of it pressing down on you; as a promise or a curse, it weighs the same. Forever. I know forever; I have felt the death of a thousand stars or more and have heard the groan and the creak of the ground beneath your own brief feet take on many thousands of pitches, unimaginable to your weak ears, as the ground shifts and reshapes itself, and I will see this all again, every stars fiery rebirth and pale, mewling demise. Every form the earth has taken it will take again, every senseless rock will inevitably shift itself just-so, a
The stained-glass sky
splinters.
I tap it again,
and it shatters,
clatters to the ground
humptydumptification
at its finest,
a thousand pieces
strewn across the grass.
All the kings horses
and all the kings men—
I can put this sky back together again.
But no, I can't;
this sky is so broken,
it will not be fixed by being whole.
But still, I try.
I jam the pieces together,
smudge glue on the clean clear surfaces,
but they stick to my hands instead,
which prickle
as I peel away false skin, and
smell of sunshine,
smell of rainclouds.
Someday I will clean this filthy sunset
from underneath my fingernails.
I stomp my right foot, and it sinks
through the floor. The earth
trembles beneath me, around me.
I am possessor
of a hundred thousand names.
They flit far beyond me,
lovely and terrible,
on wings of glass.
Funny little man, most call me,
and I am safe.
Rumpelstiltskin, said this one,
and the name flew at me,
pinned itself large against my chest.
I clutch my left foot in my right hand
and the fabric of me
begins to split up the middle,
the threads I have spun up
so carefully,
all flax and gold and hope,
fray, and I am loose, tender.
A tug, and there will be nothing left of me.
I tremble like the earth.
Nothing left of me
Standing on the Corner... by monkeyelf, literature
Literature
Standing on the Corner...
of 58th and University
there was a time
when the only thing to see here
was this broad-shouldered sky,
galloping off and off 'til its back
where it started
the concrete, now, juts
ever higher.
the sky is rationed,
rounded up and parceled off,
a distant relic.
people will pay good money
for a piece of this sky.
I stood, yesterday,
half-way there;
but all the stars had
fallen, and lay scattered
beneath me, endless glittering husks
some careless Hansel left behind.
there was a time
when, if you stretched
you could reach the sky,
break off a bit, put it in
your sock drawer, leave them all a fresh
sweet green scent
There's
nothing dead
about this barn—
though the skin of it
peels slowly off
to reveal innards
(all rustling, rusty shadows)
though besieged on all sides
by grasses trees vines
desperate for its patch of sunlight
though worn by
more years than
its blink of an eye builder
ever imagined—
still, it stands
with terrible steadfastness
under the weight
of a hundred thousand breaths
and although
it never feels any lighter
every night it disgorges
a mass of fluttering dark wings
to say: I am not yet dead.
Shh
Shh
Shh
scraping wings
luminous in the moonlight
sing to me,
a harsh lullaby
I am wide awake.
There is a cage
over this border
between my little kingdom
and the great wild woods
and in it I have captured
this fallen chip of the moon,
drawn with promises
of its long-lost kindred
and trapped between black mesh
and cold glass.
I am the wicked witch in this tale,
I could let this moon-spirit in,
set the trap,
watch it die in an instant.
But I do not mean to play this role.
I would free this,
send it to dance with the stars,
but I am trapped,
crushed beneath blankets,
so I lie,
wide awake,
and liste
You stop short.
The impossibly old, twisted little juniper-tree of a man gazes up at you imploringly.
I-Im sorry, do I know you? In a moment youre berating yourself for not thinking before you speak. You have the feeling that hes mad. But you have to say something, right?
He thrusts a package at you. Its tiny, wrapped in very, very old brown paper, the kind they use for shopping bags. You stare at it. What if it contains something horribly dangerous? You think again, hes probably insane.
You have to squash feelings of regret and pity as you see him stiffen. Aye, mlady. His accent
At night my brother danced.
It was at these times I loved him best. I loved him in the morning, when he laughed the sun awake; I loved him in the daytime, when he smiled the sun its light; I even loved him in the evening, when he wept away the sunlight, each tear in its fall a ruby for an instant, only to shatter as it hit the ground. But most of all I loved him in the starlight.
He was long and pale and graceful, my light-brother, and in the starlight his golden hair turned white and his fair skin turned translucent and he glowed as he danced across the snow. As I watched him all those nights I imagined I could see the faint outline of Moo