Striata Cornelia

 by Mandora Snout  

Cyan to the headache when you could’ve had a badder day 

Cyan nor Sue been willin to at all, not Danica or Natter 

nor did anyone out bid or out do her and I had to go on a tour 

at the end of a bad, bad, really a woesome headache, 

kitty pad to flop down and then curl up, curved teeth 

gleaming under whiskers dreaming hard. 

  Cyan been a blurred streak of a whisper for awhile, now. 

Cyan crimcutter so hollow now.  Cyan shown no other way. 

  Cyan left core duplicates of identity in storage as backup. 

Cyan's preparations for all the possibilities are what created the castle.  

Cyan and Natter got into a discussion.  In the courtyard there's a crucible. 

In the crucible there's a captive flame lighting the darkness 

of some who are already trapped. The echo of the memory of a song. 

It will always be sung in memory of our friends. 

 Cyan doesn't have to pretend to remember. 

Cyan just can't remember longer than last September. 

Remainder Cicatrix

 The thresher carbon copy

 attached itself to the base 

of the spine under the skin 

after it buried in and settled

 there through a series 

of multiple incisions.

It doctored these quickly 

with pain alleviating 

secretions. Cauterization 

set in rapidly and these 

nanobot assemblies were 

nothing if not efficient. 

It became understood that 

our eventual recovery 

from this temporal disease 

awaited in the interminable

span left of our lives except

we were the scars dealt out

our identities our own face

the exact shape of the wounds.

Dignity

 In keeping

 track of all 

    the lessons 

learned

 how do we

 move     forward 

   from here while 

many   never even

  slow  down  during 

the accident 

there's only

 one lesson. 

   Setting a

 personal

 example.

Alpha View Point

Someone mentioned that to begin drawing a circle one may start anywhere. After a sufficient amount of renderings of the initial circle, that is, after it's been redrawn enough times, there arrives a juncture along the continuum when the original starting point's impression has not only been lost and forgotten, but furthermore, is no longer required for any purpose whatsoever. Were circumstances available to somehow locate this fabled specific point along the ring, it would appear no different than any other random headstone embedded in the grass of a lone cemetery in an isolated county of an unspecified state of the union lying somewhere along the continental mid-west of northern America. It would remain just a random locale on a spherical world. Once spun, all points on the planet blur together into a projected holograph. Focus may only be established whence relativity sets in for the individual. We're all in it together because we're all parts of the same creature's experience.

The Bloom

There's a sinuous interlacing of subterranean elements

 work together to support us whether or not we're intelligent. 

When they break through to the light of day 

they may provide enough shade to sit beneath 

and wonder about some long afternoon in the distant future. 

Someone decides once again they were and always have been 

the focus of the universe, to mirror the central feature, 

Or at the very least the center of the universal phenomenon 

which existence appears to be fashioned after.  

At this time.  Reflected through them alone. 

Just like everyone else today as well as in the long tomorrow. 

The way in which these matters become important to us 

depends on our own part in the unfolding manifestation. 

What they call around here the Bloom.
The development of interchanging roles from roots 

to branches and earth to sky remains as open a puzzle 

as it ever was. The trouble with secrets in the light of day

seems to be that invariably they'll be mistaken for trinkets 

by many, only to be taken for adorning their display cases. 

That is alright, for there remains enough of it to go around.

No one who escapes with a morsel of truth 

may be called a thief  for the Blooming continues, 

this remains the ever relied upon unwritten rule. 

It's permutational shapes appear in unexpected ways. 

Sometimes expressed between sunrises and sunsets,  

And other times during our dreams in between days. 

 

NETTED in TIME

Be wary of the swallowing tide that whispers beneath the sheen of all things. From the pair of captured eyes staring back at you from the corner of the room, one from an old 80's LP vinyl record album cover and the other from the spine of a recently published hardcover biography of a popular comic book writer, it only takes the slightest gesture of the head to widen the scope of vision and pan across to reveal more examples. A pair of eyes in black and white whose lids are sewn to their upper cheeks respectively remain mutely on display upon a postcard of CLaWFiNger's album DEAF DUMB BLIND taped to the wall and the visage of the Joker glares back from his grimacing clown white mask leering on the cover of the latest DC comic sprawled on the coffee table. Various pairs of eyes from family photos stare back in their different degrees of emotion captured spontaneously during that moment the photographs were taken. Photographs like this seem to be one of the few things that are taken which end up remaining in our possession. A haunting process regardless of any which way you slice it. Because even after the photos have been left behind, we carry our memories of them with us until gradually, after we've traversed even more acreage of time, the images of them begin to fade in our mind. Eventually we forget about them altogether. In the end we must forget about ourselves. What other reason could there be for our existence than to celebrate it? Keep shining on.