Out of Synch

Locked into identity:

sacred
secret
softly

Who knew such a little thing

could be so integral,

and its absence

color things sour,

tint everything gray,

and tip the world

asunder?

(disjointed)

(seams showing)

nothing fits together

Thinking avails us nothing,

for there are no answers here,

only a strange unmapped world

and a self

no longer synchronized:
out of synch
out of kilter
out of mind

If I can't understand

the little blasted bits

around me,

I have no chance

of putting it back together

(All the king's horses and all the king's men.)

and my only hope

is time's tincture:

slow

drip

painful

drop

trickling into the abyss

of a cubist artwork life

and unmemory.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Christmas Pony

I wanted for a pony for Christmas;

thought it would make a fun pet.

It wasn't a sensible present,

but I asked to see what I'd get.

I asked for a pony for Christmas;

said they could send it by elf.

Indeed I received what I asked for,

but I had to make it myself!

Felt pony made from kit.

Was Santa good to you, or did you get coal in your stocking? If you can tell your tale in exactly 55 words, let the G-Man know!

55 - Holiday Attire

It's a time to be festive,

a time for good cheer!

Christmas only comes

once a year.

But when I looked in my closet,

I had nothing to wear.

What holiday outfit

would suit a hare?

I puzzled it over,

and I have to know:

For Christmas can't I wear

just a big red bow?

Have you written a festive tale of exactly 55 words? Tell the G-Man!

Little Games

Little games we play,

supposed to represent real life,

but measuring only our ability

to guess the answer.

Don’t be sluggish

or combative.

Play along

with enthusiasm.

Pretend you don’t see the trick:

Fake

Phony

Artificial

Wear your favorite smile!

And when we’re through,

(Congratulations.)

have a bitter laugh,

and sigh for the wasted time.

Tomorrow we return to reality

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

False Savior

They whisper little lies,

dressed up as a truth

that will set you free.

It's a simple plan,

an easy fix.

You're broken, don't you see?

You moon about, in thrall,

and my words fall on deaf ears.

They pair you with a guide

who would snatch your freedom,

put you in a box,

neatly labeled.

You're kept apart from those

who would expose

this grand deception,

and so you give away your power,

your mind,

your future,

that they should mold you in their image,

like clay.

A drowning man

cannot see the ocean,

but from the shore

I watch you buffeted on the waves of untruth,

your would-be savior

an unwitting angel of death.

And though I dare not cover my eyes

or look away,

I cannot help a man who will not swim.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Supplemented

I know the only cure is time,

nevertheless, I will try:

Calcium, magnesium,

boron, zinc...

Silica and manganese

will help, don't you think?

With mangosteen and horsetail,

there's no way I'll fail.

Compresses of comfrey leaf

will surely bring relief.

I'm doing all I can, you see.

Now excuse me while I make some tea...

I am now into my sixth week post-injury. I'm getting around better, but antsy for the next x-ray, which should give us an idea how quickly I'm healing.  

Have you written a story in exactly 55 words? Share it with the G-Man!

Arise and Walk

You sit and talk
about yourselves:

passive, passive,

never active agents in your lives.

Submit like children

to instruction,

as if you were twelve and stupid,

and not men.

Listen to them talk

about themselves:

boring, boring,

but this is the highlight

of your day,

otherwise you are:

damned

falling

failing

never strong

never safe

never saved

except on the dull shores of surrender.

Curse them all to hell.

No spoon-fed life is worth the living,

and no weakling worth the loving.

Arise and walk.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

55 - Prada Marfa

Alone on a dusty highway,

miles from any consumer,

let alone one in the market

for expensive shoes.

As a store, it would be useless,

forever in the red,

soon torn down to make

a parking lot.

But as a monument to consumer folly,

Prada Marfa compels,

and tourists beat a path to its door.

Read more about Prada Marfa here.

Have you written a story in exactly 55 words? Share it with the G-Man!

Tsunami

Your ocean knows only tsunamis:

first the calm,
then the destruction,

leaving chaos in its wake.

Though you insist this time it’s different,

I’ve seen this exposed bare mud before;

a brief interlude of calm,

followed by the wave that would drown me.

And so my heart seeks higher ground,

longing all the while

for a peaceful tide
that would lap at my toes

and gently give lie to the debris

of all those shipwrecks.

But your ocean knows only tsunamis.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.