When The Day Met The Night

jesse, transmasc, 23. i write sometimes.

[brandileigh2003]

"Under 500 kudos" hidden gems/underrated fics part 2 collab with one of my discord servers (part 1 here)

Feel free to reblog with your favorites and I'll try to keep post updated 🥰

--- please give these works some love with comment --- (let me know if I missed tagging author)

🐺⭐ Wolfstar 🐺⭐ (completed unless noted)

•Tea, mild flirtation and the long way around to one another by @lucigoo (7k) canon divergent, older wolfstar

•fire in my brain (and i'm burning up) by @littleoldrachel so emotional and great exploration of affects of aging with lycanthropy

•Fuck It, It’s Fine by @r33sespieces (24k) right person wrong time... until it is

•Please Set Me On Fire by @jennandblitz (28k) Slytherin death eater Sirius

•Through Old Flesh and Cold Bones by lanearoo @stanshunpike (16k) God's own country au

•Boys In Wartime Want To Dance by everythingintransit (16k) 1st wizarding war relationship snippets

•Survival of love and Scotland by Albatrez (44k) muggle au, road trip

•Moonlight Mile by jennandblitz (17k) canon divergent kid fic

•when world goes quiet by @madefortherain (wip 63k, 8/15 chap) uni au

•love on the fly by @mybelovedmoon (wip 30k, 6/? Chap) meet ugly strangers to lovers

•your slaps don't stick, your kicks don't hit by englishghosts (4k) post prank

•you loved me the same by @sorealis (13k) explorations of effects of lycanthropy as remus ages. Mcd.

•A Song for the End of the World by @wannabelilybriscoe (wip 297k, 35/? Chapters) zombie apocalypse

•Crash (Into Me) by imparfait @je-suis-imparfait (2k) siren au

•Bad Moon Rising by barkatthemoon @barkingatthemooninsteadofwriting (wip 204k 45/?) remus after Halloween 81

•A Bridge Over Troubled Water by @sliebman10 (17k) nursing home au

•where the falling stars land by @theresthesnitch (1k) the moon does have a favorite star

•r/relationship_advice by @goldenprophetwrites (8k) remus asks for advice about Sirius in reddit

•The Shape of Words by RageCollector (20k) deaf remus has an encounter with Sirius and his bike

•Hope's Landing by Themesis (47k) strangers to lovers au

•Rescuing Remus Lupin by @thestralsofspinnersend (17k) Remus captured on werewolf mission and sirius rescues him

•The Archive of a Full-Time Grocery Stocker by VerminWorship (wip, 48k ch 6/?) Deaf remus and Sirius raising deaf harry

•Comfort Crowd by @rawenbeau autistic and mute remus, Slytherin Sirius (wip 64k, 20/31 chap)

•the end of the world (as i know it) by foxesandsharks (wip 30k, 7/? Chap) Remus is recently diagnosed as being in kidney failure

•You've Never Had Chocolate Like This by @bluedahlia912 (35k) modern au sirius raising Harry, remus owns chocolate shop.

•the magic fabric of our dreaming by @rae-lune (40k) no voldy sirius pov, Hogwarts on

•Made of Us by @the-avengent (11k wip) 2nd war divergent, trans remus mpreg

•Burn For You by Siriusly_Reggie_13 (17k) soulmates, Remus didn't go to Hogwarts

•Let Me Believe (Ever After) by @brigid-faye (47k wip 6/12 ch) ever after au

•The Point of Vanishing by @greenibis (80k, wip) Hogwarts fic

•Coparenting With Benefits by mooneroni @m00neroni (38k wip 6/22 chapters) a/b/o mpreg fwb

•Petit pas by Curiosities (58k) modern ballet au

•Themed Adventures by Sp00nhater (2k) day at Disney with disabilities (check out whole series too!)

•The Road to Thistle Creek by viwrites @just--vi (wip 33k, 6/? Chap) alien invasion

•Dignity be Damned by VioletThistle (121k) post poa fix it

•Let Me Touch You or The Five Times Sirius Black Kissed Remus Lupin and the One Time Remus Kissed Him Back by @jadedandconfusedao3 (13k) spin the bottle

•A Great Idea by lurikko (2k) get together

•Once in twenty lifetimes by @patriceavril (2k)

•night lights by @soloorganaas (2k) wolfstar at Hogwarts

•water language by @wanderingbandurria (6k) canon divergent

•Really Close Friends by @remtv (5k) older domestic wolfstar

•Mending Spines by @emjayeingray (5k) after a long time apart, Sirius has a job he only trusts Remus to do

•from the jaws of defeat by @goldenprophet, @ixiedust-writes , @remuspinksweater (11k) Sirius is in the ER for unconventional reason

•don't mug yourself by @kaaaaaaarf (1k) Rockstar Sirius and fanboy Remus crack

•Fel i Fod by @tealeavesandtrash (17k) hunger games au

•Become a Cake Master in Only 2 Months! by @floretissogay (13k) raising teddy, Remus takes baking classes

•A New Chapter (26k) Remus struggles to work with his disability/chronic illness (self rec bc I was threatened lovingly lol)

•the record by @afirefromashes (31k) fluff and angst mutual pining

Before I go (bc i'm tired for now but have the post and feel free to check back!) Here's the under 300 club tag on AO3, which is most if not all wolfstar. This is bookmark collection from the server that helped me put this together and while they're not all under kudos number, it's a great group of fics from some awesome authors and readers. Also this Reddit post has recs.

[skarchomp]

hating on polyamory is so lame. you sound catholic

[skarchomp]

i think somewhere along the way people got the idea that they could still say they hate gay sluts as long as they did so by making fun of he/theys with multiple partners

[dear-ao3]

[yourfriendlyneighborhoodsloth]

[littledivathatyouown]

[chatterwell]

[nickyandmikey]

when two musicians sing into the same microphone and lean in very close to each other… like omg are you guys gonna kiss now to relieve the homoerotic tension?😳

[nickyandmikey]

THIS IS NOT ABOUT ONE DIRECTION I DON’T KNOW WHO THIS “HARRY” PERSON IS GO WATCH BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN AND CLARENCE CLEMONS KISS ON STAGE RIGHT NOW

[irrelevantlyvalid]

op is the only valid person i’ve ever met. everyone else needs to come to the light

[chokolattejedi]

Okay, but this is really important: Bruce Springsteen occupied this really weird place in music history. His songs were all from this pessimistic, nihilistic view of an America that had let him down:

Just like the anti-Vietnam War protest songs that we associate with the 1960s, or the early nihilism that spawned punk music in the 1970s. But he didn’t *sound* like a punk anarchist; he sounded like a country rock singer. When he released Born in the U.S.A. people completely misinterpreted (or possibly ignored) the lyrics in favor of the tone of the music.

Politicians used his music to promote their ‘Murica Yes! brand, and he had to literally explain that that was not what he was about. He’s over here asking when we’re going to have jobs and heathcare, not stanning the politicians who weren’t helping the people.

It was also kind of a big deal that he had an integrated band, because even as late as the 1980s music was still kind of segregated and MTV was straight up racist. They refused to play and promote black artists and then claimed that were no black artists in the first place. Michael Jackson’s record company had to threaten a boycott of their white artists to get MTV to play his Thriller video.

Plus, the first black/white interracial kiss on TV was in 1968 (OG Star Trek). Also it took us until the 70s to get sympathetic gay characters on screen, and the 90s to get gay characters to kiss onscreen. And all of those firsts were met with outrage.

So keep that in mind when you see Bruce Springsteen not just playing with an interracial band, but engaging in an interracial, gay kiss on stage repeatedly.

Passages from American Popular Music by Larry Starr and Christopher Waterman

[executeness]

I used to think that Bruce and Clarence kissing onstage was exuberance, showmanship, and telling racist homophobes to fuck off. Like, they picked up a certain kind of audience and went “Racist homophobes? Not in our house!” And started the kissing then but then I actually looked it up and

https://www.gq.com/story/this-fucked-me-up-bruce-springsteen-singing-about-clarence-clemons

It was a story where… we remade the city. We remade the city, shaping it into the kind of place where our friendship and our love for one another wouldn’t have been such an exceptional thing. - Bruce Springsteen

It wasn’t about showmanship or rejecting bigots or anything it was just. Damn right that was one of the loves of his life and damn right he was going to kiss him onstage

It gets me a little that Bruce has had a divorce, that he’s been married twice, but he loved Clarence for the rest of Clarence’s life and will presumably love him the rest of his own

Clemons said in one interview. “Bruce and I looked at each other and didn’t say anything, we just knew. We knew we were the missing links in each other’s lives. He was what I’d been searching for.” In another version of the story, Clemons says “He looked at me, and I looked at him, and we fell in love.”

I’m having some emotions about it!

“He was elemental in my life,“ Springsteen adds, “and losing him was like losing the rain.”

Not just! I love you pure and deep and true but! I am going to love you like that in front of the whole damn world!

We have fewer narratives about taking risks and making statements for platonic love rather than romantic and supposedly it would be easier to downplay this onstage than romance and! They refused! They fucking refused! In front of hundreds of thousands of people, over the course of years! In the spotlight, in word and deed, I love you!

God I’m not okay about it

[ramshacklefey]

Now I’m mad that this is not among any of the things I was ever told about this artist.

[jbbartram-illu]

I knew about this in general (& via all those fabulous photos), but this just adds even more beautiful context <3

[eregyrn-falls]

Just to add to the pile: this was the cover of Springsteen’s break-through album Born to Run, in 1975:

I mean, will you LOOK at this:

This was the pic chosen for the album cover from an extensive photoshoot, too. A few others:

There’s a lot more online if you search. They’re all pretty amazing. But the photographer is right, the one chosen for the album cover just pops.

[biggaybunny]

Tumblr staff: ten options is enough for polls, right? No one needs more than that on a regular basis. The average tumblr user: Hey guys which element of the periodic table do you think is the most fuckable?

[lady-inkyrius]

Posting hole

[lady-inkyrius]

Lol

[metastablephysicist]

yeah yeah carbon nanotubes. but what about the copper nanotubes.

[mythopoeticlicense]

I bet you'd need some high quality copper for that huh?

[6qubed]

not again you mesopotamian son of a bitch

[kaaaaaaarf]

So I watched that episode of Our Flag Means Death where Ed finds the bunny and thinks it's a wolf and thought, what if Remus was a wererabbit and Sirius had no idea? Anyways, have a drabble.

Here I Am (a rabbit-hearted boy)

Hogwarts Era. 654 words. Wererabbit Remus. G.

Remus' floppy ears twitch unhappily. He had been so careful—so careful not to let his friends see the monster he becomes every full moon. He thought he was sneaky, when he made his way out of the castle before dinner—after the other boys had already left for the Great Hall, but here is Sirius, standing above him with wide eyes. He'd seen the whole thing, the whole transformation—running into the clearing before Remus could even shout at him to stop. Before his body bent and twisted violently into a monster.  Remus' tiny body shakes in fear. Finally, after an impossibly long moment, Sirius seems to come back to himself. "R—Remus? Are you—you're a werewolf?"  …I'm a what now? 

"I thought maybe you were upset about Snape ruining your Potions final when you didn’t follow us down to dinner, so I came back to find you and saw you sneak out of the castle. I decided to  follow you, but I didn't think...Oh my God. You're so...so...cute."  Remus' nose twitches in a way that he thinks sufficiently expresses his shock and distaste. He’s not cute. He’s fearsome! An abomination! Sirius, unafraid, crouches down and strokes a gentle hand over the tawny fur on his back.  Okay, well Remus doesn't hate that.  Sirius scratches behind one floppy ear, and it makes Remus’ back foot twitch. Sirius smiles. "Are you a friend, wolf? Merlin, wait til I tell James about this! Our Moony—a real bloody werewolf!" and then as quickly as he’d appeared, he's gone, running off back toward the castle. It's just as well, Remus is dangerous like this. As much as he would love some company on the moons, one bite is all it would take and he could turn Sirius, too. He couldn't live with himself. Remus has just finished snacking on some grass, and is just about to hop into the underbrush to play chase with the rabbits of the Forest, when Sirius comes running back, this time with James in tow. Great. "See James! That's Remus, he's a werewolf!"  James, who is bent over trying to catch his breath, looks up at him like he's stupid. "That's a rabbit, Sirius." "No...I saw him transform—that’s Remus. He's a werewolf." "At best that's a wererabbit." He looks down at Remus, his face twisted in thought. "Sorry Remus, just a sec. Sirius—" he looks back up at the other boy, pinching the bridge of his nose. “—have you ever actually seen a rabbit before?" "Well, not precisely...Grimmauld is in the middle of London, not exactly teeming with rabbits and the like." "Babbity Rabbity? Surely you've read Babbity Rabbity at least." "I'm pretty sure Babbity Rabbity would never make it into the Black family library. Not macabre enough." James sighs. "Okay well, I’m telling you that's a rabbit." James points down at him, and Remus twitches his nose, hoping it conveys how tired he is.  Sirius stomps his feet, insistent. “But his last name is Lupin, not Lapin! He's Wolfie McWolf, not Bunny McRabbit!” “I’m pretty sure his name has nothing to do with which were-animal decided to take a chunk out of him, Sirius!” Remus tries to hop away while they’re fighting, but Sirius spots him and scoops him up into his arms. “Oh no you don’t! Come on Remus, I’ll sneak you back into the castle—get you something to munch on. What do rabbits eat, anyway? Hay? Flowers?”  Human flesh.  “They eat grass and, like, carrots. Good call though, better get him inside before an actual wolf spots him. Come on, Remus.” And that’s how Remus finds himself, a few hours later, in a soft bed, snuggled under the covers with Sirius’ hand gently resting on his furry back. He supposes being found out isn’t so bad, and if he wakes up in the morning—human again, Sirius spooning against his back, he thinks that might actually be even better.

[industrations]

Heem

[mclennonyaoi]

trying to get a friend to ask out a guy that he likes . with mixed results

[mclennonyaoi]

[mclennonyaoi]

he’s broke as hell and he needs his oat milk iced coffee

[mclennonyaoi]

[mclennonyaoi]

[gamecubewizard]

blinded by the Little Treat high

[sigmundfreud]

richard siken - anyway // the worm king’s lullaby

[richardsikendaily]

[text ID: He was point at the moon but I was looking at his hand.  He was dead anyway, a ghost.  I’m surprised I saw his hand at all.  The moon, of course, is always there - day moon, but it’s still there, behind the clouds but it’s still there.  I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice in a highball glass.  The moon?  It’s free, it doesn’t cost you anything so go ahead and look. / He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.  He was dead anyway, a ghost.  I’m surprised I saw his hand at all.  All this was prepared for me.  All this was set in motion long ago.  I live in someone else’s future.  I stayed as long as I could, he said.  Now look at the moon. /end ID]

[crushedfingers]

Anyway - Richard Siken

He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.

He was dead anyway, a ghost. I’m surprised

I saw his hand at all. The moon, of course, is always

there—day moon, but it’s still there; behind the clouds but

it’s still there. I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice

in a highball glass. The moon? It’s free, it doesn’t

cost you anything so go ahead and look. Sustained attention 

to anything—a focus, a scrutiny—always yields results.

I’d live on the moon probably except I think I’d miss

the moonlight, landscaping craters with clay roses in earthshine

and a reasonable excuse to avoid visiting hours

at the mental hospital. In space, no one can hear you

lying to your mom: “Can’t make it, Mom. It’s

a really long schlep.” The coffee’s weak and the coffee cake’s

imaginary. You’re not missing anything. Inside: a day room

and a day pass. Outside: a gazebo under a jackfruit tree.

The other inside: a deeper understanding of the burden

and its domestic infrastructure. Make yourself white.

Make yourself snow but the black bears trample

your landscape like little black dots that show up on x-rays.

It is not enough to be a landscape. One must also become

the path through the landscape, which is creepy. Truly.

The sun melts the snow, the bears wander off, the leaves

tremble like all my sad friends. I can still see his hand.

Once, in a fable, the moon woke the dead. Buried

underground, its light was too much to bear. How did it

get there? Greed. The brothers who owned it had it

buried with them. Later, St. Peter hung it in a tree.

The dead went back to bed, allegedly. One wonders why

a story like this exists. Who wrote it and to what end?

An ingenious solution: trees. Cashew, avocado, fig,

olive. Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb

higher. We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our

overcoats, the snow falling down. Little black dots.

Some dream of tall things—trees, ladders, a rope trick.

My dreams are filled with bricks, or things in the shape

of bricks. Rectangles in the hot sun. A cow, a car,

a carton of cigarettes. Even my imagination sleeps

when I sleep and why not rest? Why crash the party

on the astral plane? You’ll just be too tired to go 

to the real party later. Have you ever eaten

Swedish meatballs at a dream party? They taste like

your blanket, because they are your blanket.

My imagination wants breakfast burritos. It refuses

to punch the clock until then. I could eat six but then

I’d need a nap. A breakfast that puts you back to sleep

is useless. Dear bears, we must not hibernate!

The bathroom tile is always wet and slippery and the door

from sleeping to waking always sticks and squeeks

but I have arrived, triumphant, with corporate coffee!

Tawnya has written our names on the paper cups

in her immaculate cursive. Her eyes are dead

and lusterless but her heart is in the right place, I guess.

Somewhere deep in her chest, I guess.

We take our hats off and get down

to business. “You got plans tonight, Dick?”

“Eight dollar spaghetti dinner and all you can sing

karaoke at the Best Western. Gonna school

Pace and Killian in the finer points of falsetto.”

Not even one hour later: smoke break

in the breezeway by the handicapped bathroom.

Why is it we believe we only have one soul?

Because it’s easier to set the table for one. And you can

sing your dinner tune to yourself while you eat over the sink.

The throat of the sink: silent. The throat of the argument:

more silverware, a tablecloth, gratitude, more souls.

A kid under a tablecloth isnists he’s a ghost. A table

underneath a tablecloth is, I guess, like the rest of us,

only pretending to be invisible. Or worse:

dressed for work and not in the mood for, you know,

how it all plays out, always the same ways, boring times infinity.

“When I grow up I’m going to be a truck,”

says the kid underneath the tablecloth, and that’s one way

to deflect the weight of the inevitable, to insist on possibility

in the face of grownups and the pumace of their compromises.

The trees die standing. My Spanish teacher told me this.

I had conjugated the verbs beforehand and taped them

to the bottom of my sneaker. Cheater, yes. Also uninvested

in the outcome. She could tell. Nothing to be done about it.

Verbs of being and verbs of action. We, neither

of us, were doing much anyway at the time and the room was

too hot. I think she meant unroot, which is a good thing to mean

but a difficult thing to hear when you’re living under someone

else’s roof. I climbed trees then, too. Then climbed back down.

How do I tell you how I got here without getting trapped

in the past? I suppose that’s a bigger question than I expected.

“Hey Dick, tell ‘em about that one time when we made out.

That was a good time.” Yes, it was. And yet

should we really spend our velocities on backwards motion?

Yes. Any motion, every motion. It’s spring, green, take off

your coat, pull down your cap, roll up your sleeves, we’re

hunting, we’re arrows, we’re stag in a meadow, in a frenzy.

“Like I said, Dick. That was a good time.”

Soul 1: Was it a good time?

Soul 2: I had fun. You seemed to like it.

Soul 3: He’s no Neil Armstrong.

Soul 2: Few are.

Neil Armstrong: Hush.

“He was such a colicky baby. Always fussing and crying.

As if he didn’t want to be here at all. Right, Dicky?”

No, mom. I don’t remember. And you’re not supposed to be

in this part of the poem. You come back later, near the end,

with the ghost and the hand and the moon, after dark, after

the gimlets. “Sweetie, you asked for prompts and it’s getting dark

on the East Coast. Tick tock. And don’t type drunk.”

Dear East Coast, I’m sorry it’s getting dark. It must be problematic,

living in the future, always a few steps ahead, knowing

things you shouldn’t say, since they haven’t happened

to the rest of us yet. And Poland? I don’t dare wonder

what you know about tomorrow. “Your grandma was from Poland.”

I know, mom. And grandpa was handsome and you

were the smart one and the pretty one. “Still am. Poor Barbara.

You know, Dicky, I’ve been out of the hospital for a while now.

Remember how you promised you wouldn’t write about me

while I was alive, Dicky? Remember? So if you’re

writing about me that must mean something, yes?”

You’re not sticking around for the end, then. “No, you’re

doing fine, Squish. And yes, I miss you, too.”

We cannot tarry here. We must march, we must bear the brunt.

Smoke break: in the alley by the oleanders, the pink ones.

Dear East Coast, it is getting dark here too now. Suddenly.

“It’s getting late, Little Moon. Sing them the song.”

It’s not that late, Mr. Kitten.

“You are my moon, Little Moon. And it’s late enough.

So climb down out of the tree.”

Is it safe? “Safe enough.” Are you dead as well?

Soul 1: Sing.

Soul 2: Sing.

Soul 3: Sing.

Stag In The Meadow: Sing.

The Black Bears: Sing.

Kid Under The Tablecloth: Sing.

I’ve been singing all day.

“Yes, you’ve been singing all day. And no, I’m not dead, not

everyone is dead, Little Moon. But the big moon needs the tree.”

There is a ghost at the end of the song.

“Yes, there is. And you see his hand, and then you see the moon.”

Am I the ghost at the end of the song?

“No, you are the way we bounce the light to see the ghost.”

He was looking at the moon by I was looking at his hand.

He was dead anyway, a ghost. I’m surprised I saw

his hand at all. Once, in a fable, the moon woke the dead.

One wonders why a story like this exists. Who wrote it

and to what end? Sure, everyone wants the same things—

to belong, and to not be left behind—but still, does it help?

Perhaps. Once, in a fable: a man in a tree. Once,

in a fable: the trace of his thinking, the sound of his singing.

I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice in a highball glass.

The light of the mind illuminating the mind itself.

Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb higher.

We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our overcoats,

the snow falling down.

[spikesteaseasalt]

This is sounding in the background

Back with the 2000s grungexemo AU

[cannibalchicken]

[eurodeal]

Wow everyone is going through it. Hold my hand

[prinxe-with-no-crown]

reblog to hold the hand of the person you reblogged from

[bushpoppy]

Unionize with ur fellow pedestrians. They can’t run us all over

[grier-the-goblin-deactivated202]

this is how right of way works on college campuses

[ugli-ly]

if you think about it it's only fair that Character With No Canon Physical Description is declared sexiest man by popular vote. on the Critically Acclaimed Movie That Doesn't Fucking Exist website

[crushedfingers]

Anyway - Richard Siken

He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.

He was dead anyway, a ghost. I’m surprised

I saw his hand at all. The moon, of course, is always

there—day moon, but it’s still there; behind the clouds but

it’s still there. I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice

in a highball glass. The moon? It’s free, it doesn’t

cost you anything so go ahead and look. Sustained attention 

to anything—a focus, a scrutiny—always yields results.

I’d live on the moon probably except I think I’d miss

the moonlight, landscaping craters with clay roses in earthshine

and a reasonable excuse to avoid visiting hours

at the mental hospital. In space, no one can hear you

lying to your mom: “Can’t make it, Mom. It’s

a really long schlep.” The coffee’s weak and the coffee cake’s

imaginary. You’re not missing anything. Inside: a day room

and a day pass. Outside: a gazebo under a jackfruit tree.

The other inside: a deeper understanding of the burden

and its domestic infrastructure. Make yourself white.

Make yourself snow but the black bears trample

your landscape like little black dots that show up on x-rays.

It is not enough to be a landscape. One must also become

the path through the landscape, which is creepy. Truly.

The sun melts the snow, the bears wander off, the leaves

tremble like all my sad friends. I can still see his hand.

Once, in a fable, the moon woke the dead. Buried

underground, its light was too much to bear. How did it

get there? Greed. The brothers who owned it had it

buried with them. Later, St. Peter hung it in a tree.

The dead went back to bed, allegedly. One wonders why

a story like this exists. Who wrote it and to what end?

An ingenious solution: trees. Cashew, avocado, fig,

olive. Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb

higher. We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our

overcoats, the snow falling down. Little black dots.

Some dream of tall things—trees, ladders, a rope trick.

My dreams are filled with bricks, or things in the shape

of bricks. Rectangles in the hot sun. A cow, a car,

a carton of cigarettes. Even my imagination sleeps

when I sleep and why not rest? Why crash the party

on the astral plane? You’ll just be too tired to go 

to the real party later. Have you ever eaten

Swedish meatballs at a dream party? They taste like

your blanket, because they are your blanket.

My imagination wants breakfast burritos. It refuses

to punch the clock until then. I could eat six but then

I’d need a nap. A breakfast that puts you back to sleep

is useless. Dear bears, we must not hibernate!

The bathroom tile is always wet and slippery and the door

from sleeping to waking always sticks and squeeks

but I have arrived, triumphant, with corporate coffee!

Tawnya has written our names on the paper cups

in her immaculate cursive. Her eyes are dead

and lusterless but her heart is in the right place, I guess.

Somewhere deep in her chest, I guess.

We take our hats off and get down

to business. “You got plans tonight, Dick?”

“Eight dollar spaghetti dinner and all you can sing

karaoke at the Best Western. Gonna school

Pace and Killian in the finer points of falsetto.”

Not even one hour later: smoke break

in the breezeway by the handicapped bathroom.

Why is it we believe we only have one soul?

Because it’s easier to set the table for one. And you can

sing your dinner tune to yourself while you eat over the sink.

The throat of the sink: silent. The throat of the argument:

more silverware, a tablecloth, gratitude, more souls.

A kid under a tablecloth isnists he’s a ghost. A table

underneath a tablecloth is, I guess, like the rest of us,

only pretending to be invisible. Or worse:

dressed for work and not in the mood for, you know,

how it all plays out, always the same ways, boring times infinity.

“When I grow up I’m going to be a truck,”

says the kid underneath the tablecloth, and that’s one way

to deflect the weight of the inevitable, to insist on possibility

in the face of grownups and the pumace of their compromises.

The trees die standing. My Spanish teacher told me this.

I had conjugated the verbs beforehand and taped them

to the bottom of my sneaker. Cheater, yes. Also uninvested

in the outcome. She could tell. Nothing to be done about it.

Verbs of being and verbs of action. We, neither

of us, were doing much anyway at the time and the room was

too hot. I think she meant unroot, which is a good thing to mean

but a difficult thing to hear when you’re living under someone

else’s roof. I climbed trees then, too. Then climbed back down.

How do I tell you how I got here without getting trapped

in the past? I suppose that’s a bigger question than I expected.

“Hey Dick, tell ‘em about that one time when we made out.

That was a good time.” Yes, it was. And yet

should we really spend our velocities on backwards motion?

Yes. Any motion, every motion. It’s spring, green, take off

your coat, pull down your cap, roll up your sleeves, we’re

hunting, we’re arrows, we’re stag in a meadow, in a frenzy.

“Like I said, Dick. That was a good time.”

Soul 1: Was it a good time?

Soul 2: I had fun. You seemed to like it.

Soul 3: He’s no Neil Armstrong.

Soul 2: Few are.

Neil Armstrong: Hush.

“He was such a colicky baby. Always fussing and crying.

As if he didn’t want to be here at all. Right, Dicky?”

No, mom. I don’t remember. And you’re not supposed to be

in this part of the poem. You come back later, near the end,

with the ghost and the hand and the moon, after dark, after

the gimlets. “Sweetie, you asked for prompts and it’s getting dark

on the East Coast. Tick tock. And don’t type drunk.”

Dear East Coast, I’m sorry it’s getting dark. It must be problematic,

living in the future, always a few steps ahead, knowing

things you shouldn’t say, since they haven’t happened

to the rest of us yet. And Poland? I don’t dare wonder

what you know about tomorrow. “Your grandma was from Poland.”

I know, mom. And grandpa was handsome and you

were the smart one and the pretty one. “Still am. Poor Barbara.

You know, Dicky, I’ve been out of the hospital for a while now.

Remember how you promised you wouldn’t write about me

while I was alive, Dicky? Remember? So if you’re

writing about me that must mean something, yes?”

You’re not sticking around for the end, then. “No, you’re

doing fine, Squish. And yes, I miss you, too.”

We cannot tarry here. We must march, we must bear the brunt.

Smoke break: in the alley by the oleanders, the pink ones.

Dear East Coast, it is getting dark here too now. Suddenly.

“It’s getting late, Little Moon. Sing them the song.”

It’s not that late, Mr. Kitten.

“You are my moon, Little Moon. And it’s late enough.

So climb down out of the tree.”

Is it safe? “Safe enough.” Are you dead as well?

Soul 1: Sing.

Soul 2: Sing.

Soul 3: Sing.

Stag In The Meadow: Sing.

The Black Bears: Sing.

Kid Under The Tablecloth: Sing.

I’ve been singing all day.

“Yes, you’ve been singing all day. And no, I’m not dead, not

everyone is dead, Little Moon. But the big moon needs the tree.”

There is a ghost at the end of the song.

“Yes, there is. And you see his hand, and then you see the moon.”

Am I the ghost at the end of the song?

“No, you are the way we bounce the light to see the ghost.”

He was looking at the moon by I was looking at his hand.

He was dead anyway, a ghost. I’m surprised I saw

his hand at all. Once, in a fable, the moon woke the dead.

One wonders why a story like this exists. Who wrote it

and to what end? Sure, everyone wants the same things—

to belong, and to not be left behind—but still, does it help?

Perhaps. Once, in a fable: a man in a tree. Once,

in a fable: the trace of his thinking, the sound of his singing.

I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice in a highball glass.

The light of the mind illuminating the mind itself.

Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb higher.

We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our overcoats,

the snow falling down.

[louiest]

CRUSH consists of three sections

It’s three different versions of the same story.

-Richard Siken (x)