overwhelming wordsthere's a lot you can do with wordsbut sometimes i forget how to do any.and sometimes i look at a keyboardand see so many words that come togetherfrom just some of those lettersand there's so much to writethat i don't write at all.and sometimes i thinki drank deeply from the elixir of lifewhen i was too youngand when i drank i only drank the wordsand i spilled them out in the morningbecause the night was too silent to break it.i wonder if the silence i've keptis as big as the words i've written.i'm not writing to be censoredit's not like i do that to myselfwhen the words come rollingand i don't let them out,when i'm running down the streetbut don't make a sound,it's not like i'm afraid to be loud.i hope you can tell by the heat in my eyesthat my gaze turns steady as soon as i lie.i hope you know that when i writeand my diction turns from eloquent and quaintto fucking filthy and ragingthat i'm finding myself,even if that takes years off my lifeby looking at
Death WishAuthor's note:I was thinking about how Prime can never die now, after the brouhaha in the aftermath of the '86 movie.And I proceeded to follow that train of thought gleefully off the Emo-Cliff.(I have some ideas for funny drabbles; but emo is easier to write! Ha.)As always, this is set in my personal happy universe...Death WishI visit their tombs today.Again.The catacombs are vast; as I walk through them, the hollow clatter of my footsteps echoes down the long halls, returning to reverberate in my empty spark.I follow the groove that my ever-returning feet have worn into the floor, to pay my respects to the friends who have gone ahead without me.I stop first at the most recently added memorial, and though I know he is no longer here, I whisper, Hello, Ratchet. The able mech wound down in his medbay, as he was teaching a newling apprentice how to hot-wire a transformation sequence. I will miss his gruff amiability.Next I visit a much more ancient mon
seek (FFM 13)He's been searching for as long as I've known him; for what, I'm not sure. I can't quite decide if he's certain. But what I do know is this: he's not finding what he's looking for. So often we play out the same scene, the same routine. It hasn't changed in years, and I expect it will continue to be acted years in the future.Eleven at night, and I'll find him in the library, surrounded by papers. His eyes, they're possessed by a frenzy, a fanaticism. When this happens, I know that we're having one of those nights. I hope that he'll abandon his search, come to bed. He never does. I've given up reprimanding him with any real feeling, and his contempt is only a token gesture. We keep up appearances, but I no longer remember who we think we've been fooling. Ourselves, perhaps.Twelve, and I curl up in the corner with a book or a notepad, but I never read or write. I fixate upon the veins in his hands as he rummages with increasing distress through myriad photographs, document
behind, and to the righti.you were a seriesof battles won--kaleidoscopic memoirsof your strength litter the kitchen bench,something to hold on towhen the need's clutching, starving, wasting you awayii.twelve months soberundone by one hourdrunkthe vodka bulletdismantled a personaalready brittle-bonediii.you lovedin jagged pageturns,like tomorrow wasalready a memory,and one day, tomorrowstopped visitingiv.you died on valentine's day;symbolism gifted in the formof a flowing red bouquetand desperate hopelessnessat least, that's whatthey didn't say,once the war ended.
on grocery shopping with your lovershe picks out the perfect ear of corn. holds it up for me to see, peeling back the huskto look for rot. this is our sunday, and her handscircle my lower back in simple rings. i kiss heron the shoulder and think:this is our wedding day.she picks out the perfect ear of corn like she could have done for the rest of our lives.holding it up for me to see,there is no rot to find. no decay in us, only terrible, murderous youth.in her husking handsi see our lives sprawled out like mountain ranges, two separateEverests, only begunto be shucked.i know from her gardening handsthis will be our only sunday. she picks out the perfect ear of corn. she holds it up for me to seepeeling back the husk.it is clean and nascent, already plucked.already dying.