In a pendant past, still waiting to become, my dreams were ever wandering in a lifeless land: the high night of suburbia, where the homes were anthracite compressed from smoke, and the streets all ran with bitumen, flowing over aeons to Nocturnia.
Unlike the solitary dreams of sleep, reality is common ground, a place where we share with one another, and intertwine the other kind of dreams: our plans, hopes, and visions for the future. That is the purpose of reality.
My Purpose of Reality books from Meerkat Press, illustrated poetry and short stories, are now available, with pretty fair reviews from Publishers Weekly and the like. Reviews, purchase, and other info here.
Inconstant light will be updating once per month from today, rather than once every three weeks. The reasons for this relate to the persistence of reality. It has nothing to do with the wood ducks, so they tell me.
What are you writing? Come on, let me see.
When Eloise left, she took most
of the crow in the fridge, just left the bones
and the beaks for me, but I didn’t care—
they were always my favorite bits.
When the morning’s rays are slanting through the kitchen windows, it’s time for mathematics.
Once upon a cereal box, I read of the analytical and inestimable Doctor Petal, who was confounded by the nature of free will, and chose to coalesce the time stream to make the future as irrevocable as the past.
When the rain fell sizzling down, damp with lightning, she observed the protozoa in each drop, waiting to reach the underworld to complete the polygon of life.