My Back Pages - a collection
of links to my work online:
a collection of poetry,
short stories and thots from my late teens through my early 50s
my geocities page (from
last century -- links mostly obsolete)
Philosophic and
inspirational poetry and poetic prose. Notes from an ongoing journey of
transformation, using language to capture visionary imagery. Complex,
metaphysical, reflective -- pieces embroidered in faery dust, others engraved in
lead that alchemically turns to gold. Words from the Sky God, Uranus, progenitor
of us all and grand inspirer through the chaos of change.
emerging
visions
MOVING FROM THE VISIONARY'S
IMAGINATION INTO VIEW THAT ALL OF US MAY LEARN TO SEE FURTHER
an online 'zine displaying
various visual and written visionary art connected into a derivative artistic
statement. It is free for anyone who wants to view it
Root of Desire
working with a gaggle of
characters in conversations, back stories and poems from their
perspectives.
Venusian Air
partial
compilation
poetry
chapbooks, cycles, montage
pieces
and myths personal
and reimagined
working title: [evening
dionysian] - performance of imagination:
Dancers dance
musicians play
Enchanting sylph narrates
stories
while seductively moving to
sinuous
back beat, tick of
chimes.
Occasionally emphasizes
subtle percussions
with intense expressions,
leaps, cunning
stumbles, falling to crawl
into spellbound speech.
Scheherazade myths,
archetypal passion
escapades, poignant weeps,
salient shouts
to power. Exquisite
meditations on mystic
climes, spirit and form.
Merry masks,
sparkly costumes, paint and
glitter as
embellishment to the
tellings.
Theater as intimate
ritual.
Anything could
manifest.
lunar rambles, random acts
of sharing
and works in
progress
seasonal writing and other
journeys
blogbbook word
opera
the night's pages precurser
and random thots
night's pages
{patchwork narrative} a
flash fiction serial following the story of a child vampire, the eternal child
monster working out that existence.
Something Sacred
online
experimental metafiction
scif fi fantasy
prequel - Acts of
Desolation
from: Acts of
Desolation http://caelastory.blogspot.com/2009/03/acts-of-desolation-when-battlefield.html
When the battlefield
torn by mines is all the school or playground in which to grow,
how can the children be
taught to know, to understand a lexicon of peace?
Bitter hatred permeates
mother’s milk and what there is of grain,
permeates the very
rain, gathered in barrels since the wells ran red
with poisoned blood,
since the holiest of sites became blackened
with pestilence and
shame.
Rumors expand on who is
to blame; not much else to go around..
I like to walk the dark
empty streets. Late at night, the city becomes its own. The smells, the
silence, the stark black and white, shadows and streetlamps, without the people
the city can become comforting, peaceful. But never for long.
It was a cold night,
early in January. It hadn’t snowed much, but there were icy patches where
puddles refroze after the hours of the traffic’s warmth. She was huddled in a
threadbare shawl, moving at a pace some compromise between care for the ice and
keeping blood from coagulating to avoid frostbite. I don’t like to get
involved. In the end you can only lose.
Sure enough, a large,
somewhat threatening looking, guy appears, yelling after her.
I keep to myself
against the reassuring bricks and steel, and watch the drama ensue.
But maybe I’m not as
sheltered as I thought, since the next thing I know I am waking with a
monumental headache in a far different place. Bright lights, loud noises,
sterilized activity, I am propped up against a wall in an overcrowded ER, a
place where my disheveled, disoriented presence is sure to cause no
alarm.
Then, I see her on a
gurney. She is deathly pale, still. I am starting to wonder if this is all a
dream, or some superdrug hallucination, but the sensory qualities are all too
real, and distasteful. I hate when that happens. Now I’ll have to deal with
all this gross stupidity without the benefit of knowing what it’s all
about.
A nurse’s aide comes
over with a form for me to fill out about insurance and next of kin. I motion,
slur, get him to understand that I am concerned about the young woman on the
gurney. He probably thinks she’s my sister or girlfriend, and tells me she’s
lost a lot of blood, but they will be transfusing as soon as the right blood
type comes up from storage. It may be touch and go, but she’s in good hands.
He tells me a physician’s assistant will be calling me shortly to examine my
contusions and lacerations, and I should tell her what drugs I am
on.
I see the guy from the
street come in while we are talking. Should I try to hide or get away? Or is
he just here because of her? I was just an inconvenient by-passer, after all.
I can’t get my legs to work under me anyway. May as well just let it play
out.
Sure enough, he sidles
over to her, whispering something in her ear as the life drains out of her.
Like I say, I don’t like to get involved.
I waited for my body to
figure out how to cooperate, and got out of there. Back home, I’m hammering
this out on my antique manual typewriter. There’s no electricity here in the
hole. Thankfully, there is a working fireplace, and places to scavenge
wood.
The city’s got a
million stories. I like to squirrel them away in these recordings I keep typing
and filing. You can see them unfolding, refolding, just out there, everyday.
The hard part is not getting sucked in, becoming the story yourself.
