a good lyre

[brotherorpheus]

8:55 a.m.

we say nothing

past the windows moves

everything

trees and their shade

sunbursts between branches

as we rode

beyond, a tunnel of open

a depth of landscape made by

ley lines of telephone poles

closer, streaks of pollen,

birds in the grass,

an abandoned house

a face of emptiness

along the state road,

the dark and teary eyespots

of a monarch

we say nothing of them as

there is nothing here and

no one is listening

[brotherorpheus]

2:06 p.m.

as though some southern prophet

in their escape

with palms in holy gesture

parted a sea

of pine needles

those venous trails

daedalian

in their circuitry

seemed to swallow us

barefooted, wary

of fire ants,

earthen tells,

busied ruins, as dead and alive

as the shuttered storefronts

downtown, near the food bank

a patient creek we ran along

backyard dogs announcing us

as interlopers amid

their green-grass fiefdoms

underscored by the angry trills

of frogs we stalked along the bank

and a summer storm, a distant percussion

growing greedy and generous

in its wrath and its rain

children of june

racing sundown

as a gilded trail

that vanished into the storm drain

giving way to the inevitable nothing

as light must

your time in the service, you last stint

in county, all i know of you now

[brotherorpheus]

6:29 a.m.

it may have

been the tide, eternal crash

the voice who precludes

a perfect silence, save the crèche

of sound which lives along

a coastline

a cackle of seabirds watchful

for the crawlings

borne within

an after-wave

dawn summonings

the motion of everything

devoured and devouring

a silken helicoid

the mad spiral

the body entire

withdrawn into

its own embrace

[brotherorpheus]

1:38 p.m.

this one will not be cynical

it will not

revel in nostalgia, the tedious yearn

for when we were just too young

to know any better

it will not play for sympathy

or in the sticks

it will not describe a tragedy

either real or more likely

one you’ve built inside yourself

it will not dampen the mouth

with sex or lust unsatisfied or

want unrequited, an aching

disappointment, how easily

the thought quickens the blood,

how vulgar and unbe-

coming

it will not groan over politics

the pomp and masturbatory

circumstance

of perpetual chaos masked

by analysis and quantification

and endless podcasting

it will not pine for ages of peace

never known and never promised

it will not mention god

or its many flavors

nor conjure faithless dark

it will speak of nothing

to no one

until replaced by silence

the far superior composition

[brotherorpheus]

5:15 a.m.

sapphire spills,

suffuses,

from a treeline,

a dawning mockery,

eyes still open

seeking dream instead

of sun, the effluence

of thought and memory

find me here

awake

awaiting

[brotherorpheus]

Love & the Black Hills

pt.1

Then suddenly, David was being antisemitic.

You looked at Juliet. Her eyebrows lifted, as yours had in a similar expression of shock. Her mouth, though, became an awkward, drunken giggle. You were drunk too. David was as well.

responsible for wars…control of financial…hoarding wealth…

David said these things as the three of you had walked heavily up the steep road that led to their place. You were winded, muscles tired from work, and now slackened by alcohol. Your legs burned as badly as your throat did after an evening of drinking and smoking cigarettes. Everyone smoked cigarettes at the bars then. Although, the newer places made you use the patio. You smoked those clove cigars then like a beatnik; Juliet and David hand-rolled their own. They were awesome in that way.

Until that point, not a single racist or otherwise prejudiced or derogatory word had been spoken. You didn’t talk like that. You were three young, pseudo-intellectuals, basking in the revelatory freedom of travel. One of you was interracial, the others were progressive by nature, possessed of that eager calm a young person grows when they’ve done some moving around.

He used no slurs, he advocated no violence, only repeated that same tired refrain.

yeah, okay, honey… Juliet said at some point, threading her arm through his, looking over at you with that restrained but brilliant smile of hers, and rolling her eyes. David quieted.

Around you, the summer night was hanging in that surreal interzone of about 2:00 to 4:00 a.m.; that distinct, witching-hour-vibe of transition. Dew was gathering, making little puddles of light beneath the few lampposts and the yellow windows of their rental house ahead of us on the hill. There was no traffic. The town itself seemed abed and lay in a comfortable silence which your east coast-bred sensibilities found as wonderous as it was terrifying. There was nothing but your feet dragging on pavement and prairie insects, a constant and overwhelming chorus in mid-August.

And the breeze. That glorious, delicious Black Hills breeze like the ever-sweeping serpent of loving cold. So unlike the warm, sodden breath of southern night you knew so well.

It came in the quiet, after David had stopped speaking. It spurred the chokecherry bushes into harsh little whispers, it passed over your face in a caress, and became a tumble of chestnut as it moved through Juliet’s hair which flared out as the brief motion of a wing when again she turned to smile at you.

You would carry that moment with you, that silence, that breeze, and that smile, like a totem of memory, gathered in your pocket with all the rest. As well as the memory of her arm draped over you, her body a bundle of warmth against yours.

There is no guilt in this story. This is not about an affair. Nor is it about antisemitism; none of you ever mentioned the things he’d said, and he never said anything like it again.

It’s about love, I guess, and how, like life and its many shapes, it grows wherever it can, however it can, no matter how fleeting or inconsequential it may be.

This one had started a few months earlier, at a picnic table, where you had sat alone nursing a ghastly beer, and a beautiful woman sat next to you and said hello.

cont. in part 2

[brotherorpheus]

May 27th, 2026

as though a drowning

this verdancy swallows

in the depth of it

in the storm-breath

a suggestion of sun

weeping silklight

collisions among

humidity

somewhere

lightning happens

and then stillness

[brotherorpheus]

5:23 a.m.

a confusion

falling as dawn

nocturnal things recede

drenched

in a bloodless blue

wet earth eager to receive

what drips from leaves

her parched tongue

joyous

her river

swollen by storms,

moving, lingering quickness, a hand

across skin, sated by dreams of hunts,

now awakened

in hunger,

somewhere west

where still she sleeps

[brotherorpheus]

9:24 p.m.

beautiful phrases about seasons

bold, archaic descriptors regarding

flowers and their pollinators

woven within clever, if obvious,

allegories rife with personal

subtext, some suffering expressed,

if not quite reconciled, and here something

biblical, mosaic, quranic

the esoterica of fleeting

pop culture

this later section more unhinged

the pure frustration

of existing, an unsure giggle

at the inelegance of us, the graceless

pursuit of nothing,

then a happiness maybe,

space permitting, time allowing,

if the cost can be justified

reference the beginning

in the final part, it’s only polite

to acknowledge the path

and admit the disappointment

in this, as with everything,

and knowing that it cannot fade out

into that aching empty

like the after-echo of an aria

it can only just end

as with everything

[brotherorpheus]

6:00 a.m.

in rain

it was

white incandescence pouring

slipping

a murmuration of veils

that fall

and melt, sodden light chimera

streetlamps, the colored blinks made

by traffic patters, laser-motions of

headlights, tiny stygian fields

of brakes

the two-street festival, Jackson’s Ward

immense with sound, a mass

of hot breath and rain-damp bodies and

the scent of Church Hill, alive in grease,

in love, in stovetop flames

riverfish and okra

still heavy

despite the gracious summer storm

they were softer then

more patient

poetry

came from every angle

set to every music

a rhythm bounding between

alleyways as though buildings

had heartbeats as quick as

ours were, hands enveloped

caught in currents streaming past

the new age store, the organic grocer

and countless,

nameless temples adorned by murals

each a gathering of moments

of immortal colors

each a galley of eyes watching

generations bloom and wither

and hope and fight and dance

despite the weather,

in truth

their sound, our sounds, our voices

became a timbre

of the growing thunder

[bluesandbarebones]

I was tagged by @wordpimp (thanks!) to share ten GIFs from my favorite films. I don't have ten favorite films because I don't usually remember things after I watch them. #memoryproblems

But... I do have actors I like, so here are 10 Tom Hardy TV/movie GIFs!

I'll tag a few random people who might like to share their favorite movies/actors: @brotherorpheus, @ashesinverses, @reliabls, @lenawrites0, @worldbuildingwanderlust, @freiherr-von-naarenburg, @lebuc, @cruxymox, @definegodliness, @ellenya

[brotherorpheus]

I like the theme idea. As such, I'm abandoning premise.

Today's collection is: "Actors (and one musician) I would like to hear reciting my poetry."

Thanks @bluesandbarebones

[brotherorpheus]

9:43 p.m.

concerning the sight of you,

recalling hair, oaken-dark

a youthful sway, night-string

touched by autumn sunlight

through sweetgum canopies

and hazel shine within

simple frames, almost mirrors

next to the gold-damp window

then once, a candied-apple

at your lips, at that gaudy

county fair, red like your skin,

that august heat bled heavy

over joyous screams

which came in waves

us lost in shade and

the depths of each other

the vast escape, relentless gravity

the pull and push of other worlds

we watched reveal as east

yielded west which yielded sea

a sweeping orange-black, a dusk

we almost missed

a highway we remade

in shades of us

now a nameless and silent

storyteller

static hum

from the record player

something ancient, something secret

songs from

the edge of the city

where we watch

little harmonies compose themselves

newborn chords

and their progressions

sighs and whispers, the bus to southside

birdsong, that transient symphony

traffic, chaos in sound

our voices, our laughter, our anger,

our silence,

the quiet frequency

making itself known

among the clamor

of an earth that moves around us

[tinydancerinyourhead]

i was tagged by @musingsoftwistedpoet to share 10 of my favorites movies with gifs 🎥

no pressure tags🖤 @twohousesoftheholy

@brotherorpheus @secretumpoeta

[brotherorpheus]

I did the same thing yesterday, but I'm doing it again because I love movies.

Thanks to @tinydancerinyourhead

I could do this all day.

[purplemonkeysexgod69]

tagged by @lorienfae

Cheers! 🍻

Looks like everyone has already been tagged. Tagging @cherokeeghostwriter, @brotherorpheus, @mikefrawley, @takingstockofwhatmattersmost, @jayarrarr, & @the-hollow-quiet.

Honorable mention:

[brotherorpheus]

tagged by @purplemonkeysexgod69 and @allnightsong2

absolutely loved this one.

[brotherorpheus]

10:40 p.m.

(tw: SA, racial violence, me being generally pissed off about everything)

into this

violent surrender

red like blood on a map

trickling over

the poverty line

the way oak leaves tumble

striking branch and acorn

rope and cheek and feet floating

above black soil

catching what was wept

from something once living

sacrificial tears that water the borders

of cotton fields

voices risen, righteous and empty

prayers birthed in the same breaths

which gather as wind

to fill the sails of slave ships

industries crafted by hate

and opportunity

empires, tall upon sepulchral stone

hands of the many

and other victims of economy

what thrones we made, filled

by what thrives in greed

and gluts on cannibal feasts

eaters of earth, of lives,

of children

rape-drunk and power-fed,

the poisoned harvests sown

within generational wealth

the rot, the fetid kingdom,

a cry of hope swallowed

in the din of bared-fang want

[brotherorpheus]

In lieu of poetry, which my brain is ardently refusing to produce, I present a brief case study of the colorful differences in American cultural regions.

Once in small town South Dakota at a VFW bar (note: I am not a veteran, that’s just where the locals took us) we commandeered the jukebox. And as any other southerner would eventually, perhaps inevitably, do, I played Freebird by Lynyrd Skynyrd. The crowd went wild and most of us played air guitar for the entire solo. The energy was palpable and joyous.

Roughly a year later, at a bar in California wine country, which genuinely shared a parking lot with the windmill-bearing motel made famous by the oenophilic movie Sideways, I repeated the experiment. This time, however, the song was met by a murky, annoyed silence punctuated by the bartender who, in a loud voice, asked:

“Who put this hillbilly shit on?!”

I’m not sure what factors led to such a marked variation in reaction, nor what it suggests about our ongoing struggles to find common ground as a country and a community. And yet there’s something so illuminating about the difference, even if it’s frustratingly difficult to quantify. I suppose more tests are necessary.

I had my revenge on the Californians later that night, revenge demanded of me by my memories of the Dirty South, when I convinced a drunken stranger to play The Diamond Sea by Sonic Youth, which is an awesome song with a twenty minute outro of Grunge-style feedback. The looks on their faces was the balm I had craved.

Ain’t nobody scoffs at the Skynyrd.

(Pic unrelated, just pretty)

[brotherorpheus]

notes for a poem #3

can you write about being uninspired?

kind of a contradiction, isn’t it?

that blank, that frustrating empty

are you avoiding introspection?

or perhaps you’re sick of classical mythology and judeo-christian allusions

how many gods and martyrs does it take to flesh out a stanza?

you could write about love. if nothing else, you know its face and the face of its opposite.

is it the tolerance break? that tedious self-torture?

when you were young you wrote like a wannabe beat poet, all loneliness and asphalt and drugs you’d never taken

are you bored? are you numb? are you tired so deep in your body you can’t recall when your eyes weren’t burning?

really, what the fuck is wrong with you?

a sad memory, then, the easiest color with which to paint, do something with it:

(recall Mr. Little Wolf, whom you first made smile by telling him you’d beat the shit out of him if it came to that, who’d let you walk him to the detox center when no one else could get him to go, who wove you a dream catcher, pink circle with white cross strings and silver beads, when you left, whose name you saw on a memorial list some years later, how you hoped it hadn’t been the cold that got him like others you knew, how that pink circle had bleached to bone-white where it hung from the rearview mirror)

fucking hell, never mind, i don’t really want to think about that

don’t write anything