Wonderlust

Jacob, a writer at nineteen. Aspiring to a post a day, usually poetry with pieces of prose thrown in for flavor. I welcome feedback, writing prompts, and strange questions.

[caravandal]

Chitin

Three spots to one wing, a dark tear upon the other, this ladybug ladybug couldn’t fly away home.

  A wound by some careless hand led him straight into mine. He climbed aboard from the hydrant top to explore the crags of my palm, the crevasse of my lifeline. He tickled as we wandered, with the sidewalk an oft ignored guide.

  Miles and miles from meeting a marigold waved hello its fireball top signaling. Then I, his captain, placed gangplank fingers to the stem that he may step ashore.

  As legs moved in concerted motion across the green his peeling armor stuck out. The black eye glaring, watched and jeered “I will outlive your kindness.”

[caravandal]

Some Small Creature

The sickly sweat of recycling death slurs from the road or under the porch with the breeze, all in jest, stumbling this way and that, hiding, soft hiding, its source.

The sweet of decay tickles light in the shade of this peeling yellow house- no home, no, barely a house- as a hand moves by, out of turn, to trigger a harsh blue light, the firefly glimmers born of a street lamp morph to sapphire scarabs and scurry down, down, towards her chin.

  So she pleads with the sky, though the stars plead the fifth and a stratosphere empty leaves no sign or gift. But the bark of a dog, rousing sudden, from sleep births a fear of the quiet, sees a face in the sheets. All aloneliness shudders so meek, oh so weak.

  The men of the house each walk by with a word as they change out their oil and unscrew  their cogs. Then she sinks to the table stuck like a slogan in red and whispers, just mumbles I’m losing my mind. I’ve never, not ever, been so alone in my head.

[caravandal]

Acclimation

So quickly grown un- accustomed to the crowds Each face counts a soul and vessel till the numb-brush sweep of everyday blots each smile to the same muddle

[caravandal]

I keep finding your hair in the strangest places. It's unmistakable. Sidewinder curls dyed halfway up in whatever hue you've settled on this month- it's always a pleasant reminder.

[caravandal]

Breakwater

Let's carve out a sea wall from sand and from stone; live by the ocean to ease the aches in our bones; watch moonlight cut deals through the rising tide's foam. I know that one day we may drift away, but the sea wall will give us a home.

Deep in the thunder of rain battered night you reach for my hand and I pull you tight. When the storm has swept by we will carry on. I know that one day we'll be blown away. The sea wall will be here when we're gone.

When we're as old as the salt on the breeze and you've planted the children of your myrtle trees, will the bright of our eyes start to fade to black? I know that one day we'll be washed away. Pray the sea wall will hold the waves back.

I'd have gone on before you if I had my way. Now you're in the garden, and there isn't a day I don't kneel by your side and ask what to do. I know that some day my soul will drift away and the sea wall will guide me to you.

[caravandal]

Controlled Burn

Smoke billows nonchalantly the only blemish on yawning blue. Somewhere among the palms and pines men and trenches and hoses limit flames to the daily prescription.

With dry heat tickling, bullying moisture from the air, I imagine myself in a library. Memories are helter-skelter stacked on shelves, in boxes, atop one another, and a pack of matches fits perfectly in my palm.

It's a moment's work to begin the blaze before a dozen enveloping heats compete. Some soft as July evening firefly-glow, some the flinch-back pain of disaster. And you burn bright red, set my skin alight to spit and crackle as pages of You and of Us whirl pain and pleasure in the inferno, till I'm knee deep in the ashes of Past and Gone. Shelves barer, boxes fewer-

-scent of roasted pitch reminds me to breathe. Perhaps the next time lightning strikes we will be ready.

[caravandal]

Is this a nightmare or a waking dream? I just can't tell past the glare from the screen. I wish I could lash out, I wish I could scream, but it's you and your mothers, I'm caught in between.

Don't know who I am; not sure what I've been. Self-searching would be easy if I gave a shit about what I found past the robitussin and the sloshed lullabies that sting just a bit.

Let's wander through hallways that all look the same; blister our feet stumbling round in a daze; take arms against life; shout "We won't play your game!" Cause we can't see the scoreboard past our own fucking haze.

Back when we were giants, they ground our bones for bread Promised us truth from men we'd never met. Now I'm on my knees giving water to the dead Wait for the chance to settle this debt. Hope to see you some day, and settle this debt.

[caravandal]

If familiarity breeds contempt, then unlearn yourself. Surprise yourself! Become something strange and exciting. Push boundaries to expand, until your mind never feels trapped inside your skull.

[caravandal]

Long Distance

The brow of the wind isn’t much to place your garland upon, you know. But if your flowers stay aloft, follow where they go. Chase petals far across the sea, to peak, valley, and forest floor. But if you leave, don’t return to me. I’ll have nothing to give anymore, for I am landlocked, small, and poor.

But you, oh you! My paramour! Follow where your gale flies. Grow larger than your smallest self, and give us all a grand surprise. So when you set off on your own, I’ll send you on with song and cheer. But should you return, in greatness grown, it will not be for me, I fear. Though you mustn’t let me keep you here.

[caravandal]

Magnify

"Come into my parlor," said the spider to the fly. "Ma'am, if it's alright, I'll have to pass your offer by." Alone at table set for two, she gave a heavy sigh held a picture of her husband, and attempted not to cry.

A wolf snarled 'cross the pasture "Someone come into my den." Replied a flock of humble sheep, "We'll stay inside our pen." And so he howled to the moon; she listened to his sin and wondered if she ever might see his face again.

"Lay down your arms, or surely die!" shouts the soldier to his foe. Reply is a hail of heated lead, and an unheard whispered "no." When each is just, then neither one shall let the other go. The only end can be a field where lonely poppies grow.

Up high, these tragedies of life, viewed from the mezzanine fall good or ill, light or dark, and nowhere in between. But jumping from the balcony's warmth, land where the cold bites keen. Up close is grey and muddled truth which few have ever seen.

[caravandal]

The Jester and the Sculpture

That their Queen was beautiful, her people had no doubt. When she stood out on the royal balcony to speak, the modulator embedded in her throat played the sweetest synthesized voice anyone had ever heard. A smattering of words, then the lordlings would cheer, in their deep and comely computerized voices, the bourgeousie would join in, blasting excitement from their cheaper, tinny speakers, and the throngs of beggars would lift the positively barbaric strains of their vocal cords to praise her infinite wisdom. Elected from the most gorgeous individuals modern medicine had to offer, the Queen was a marvel of human ingenuity, and unwavering devotion to aesthetic perfection. She was the perfect height, her legs having been broken and reset multiple times to add the necessary inches genetics had not afforded her. Her ample, rounded bust protruded above her tiny waste, products of silicon and suctioning methods most of her citizens could only dream of. But the most marvelous aspect of her appearance had to be her face. Her cheekbones and jaw were shaved down to the shape that was currently considered most feminine, and her skin was stretched taut across these sculpted features, preempting any wrinkles afforded by her fifty-six years of age. Her face was pulled so tight, in fact, that she dared not risk overextending the muscles of her jaw. She could smile, frown, move her lips, but she dared not speak or eat. Speech was handled instead by a modulator, shaped like a necklace and embedded in her throat, and her nutrition came in the form of tubes and pills, designed to keep her figure in its perfect proportions. This sight of utter beauty, this image of Aphrodite, this icon to be praised and adored stood before her people and prepared them for the spring Pageant.

But when she kicked off, the railing gave a wobble. Her flip fell short, landing her on the tile face first. She rolled over, sat up, tried not to cry or vomit, or do both at the same time. The taste of blood filled her mouth, and when she spat out a tooth between her hare lip, her eyes met those of the Queen. Her royal face was trembling, her eyes bright and excited, Milla thought at first in rage. Then, her mouth opened wide and her cheeks split open, almost as if along a seam. Milla caught only a glimpse before the attendants rushed in and surrounded their mistress. Below, the revelry had stopped. Milla felt all eyes on the balcony, but heard nothing. Even the bustle around the Queen was indistinct, obscured. Only one frantic yell made it through to the girl's muddled brain. "Get medical here, now! The fool made her laugh!"

[caravandal]

I don't have nightmares anymore. I think they all got tired one day and moved to a mutual horror, retracted their legs from the crevasses of subconsciousness. They stride about now, proud and multiplying not ill-remembered fears, but waking worries taking ginger steps with spider gossamer web ankles, slicing through the calm and collection.

I don't have nightmares anymore. Suppose they got fed up, at some point, with the poor attention I was giving sleep and finding a door unlocked in imagination snuck out.

It's worrisome at best, to think of those monstrous abstracts roaming the streets, knowing they're somewhere out there.

But it's comforting to think that if they escaped, perhaps my dreams did too. Perhaps they are between my fingers in my arms. It could be dreams that are tickling my face in strands of hair. And it could be dreams that brought me here in this strange new bed that we learn to share.

[caravandal]

Holiday

How was your break? Breathe that question again and again without answer. It was fun- saw all my highschool friends and how they hadn't changed, hung out, went to the beach, had a family Christmas-

How was your break? Sputter as it sticks in my throat. It was fine- her parents spiraled deeper into a nasty, drawn out divorce, but she's got a puppy now, and she's still got me, and that must count for-

How was your break? Choke on the feigned interest. Uneventful. I've stayed away from pen and keyboard for months, thought that if I quit milking the venom out onto the page, maybe I could stop producing-

How was your break? Vomit every answer I've failed to give. My sister swallowed a bottle of pills that she bought when I took her shopping the day after Christmas, tried to kill herself without any indicator as to why; the next night I got blackout drunk with my friends while my family spent New Year's in a hospital room, told everyone everything, showed them the scars from where I thought I hadn't cut deep enough to cause any, woke up in a stranger's clothes, lost a game of pool, and tried, tried, tried not to relapse before my next appointment, when I get to talk about all-

-fine. How was yours?

[caravandal]

I met the two-faced man on Hallows Eve, beneath a midnight sky, upon a moonlit backroad, we chatted, he and I.

Our talk went on; the moon sank low, and silvery shadows grew, silhouettes of scraggly trees drawing lines between us two.

He spoke of life and I heard death; of love and I heard pain; he spoke of beggars in his guise; of loss, but I heard gain.

We argued as the autumn wind tore at his tattered cloak. Our voices rose, then fell, then climbed, till finally mine broke.

His beguiling tone now unopposed, he wrapped a tender thread of thought around my supple mind, placed words inside my head.

Reverberating in my skull, pounding in my ears, they whitened all my blackest doubts, tied down my unkempt fears.

My mind assuaged, my heart at ease, I rose without dismay. And when he glared at me with eb’ny eyes I did not look away.

And so I took the proffered hand and felt a change begin to seep quietly within my veins coursing life beneath my skin.

A curse or blessing I cared not, of burdens, I am free. No longer shuffling on a slipp’ry coil, I plead immortality.

Now I haunt the witching hour, I wander just as he, two faces live within myself, they quarrel bitterly.

I met the two-faced man on Hallows Eve, Soon before the moon had set. On that night I sold my soul, Still I live, without regret.

[caravandal]

When you go I unlearn the shape of your body so that upon your return I may discover you anew

[caravandal]

Lit

What do you do when your sea of troubles takes up arms? The day your demons organize rank and file where do you go? You can flee to your skull's darkest corners but they'll find you spread out in search pattern.

Better to make a stand among memories, and there, under regret's caress under the weight of clinging doubts under the lure of apathy's escape erode down to the bones. Find out what you are made of.

[caravandal]

Hollow Breeze

An autumn wind tears through the evening, resonant, a garbled roar trapped in a giant's throat. I am nothing more than what you made me. A crash, a tear, something lost, then he pushes on, a king's ransom in rubies spilling from between his fingers as he clutches an arm to his chest. A harvest moon hangs poised overhead, suspended by ropes of starlight, lest it should fall, an executioner's axe to cleave the land in two. The gale howls, continuous, monotonous, chronic, painful and tormented, a bestial cry that screams instinct into any listening ear. I am nothing worse than what I have always been. A trip, a stumble, thunderclap stuns the dry night air, as flesh and blood meet sand and stone in a clamor of jarred bone and pained cries. Behind, a fiendish baying rises into the air, the sound a flight of arrows that comes crashing down around him as he struggles to rise. Every echo sticks in his mind to the fletching, barbs of agonized fear and calamitous urgency. A current of frigid air pours out, drowning everything else, an ocean pounding downward, carrying dregs of lust and terror. I am nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He stands surrounded, the slope looms above, a dark cloud clasped against his back as it blots out the bloody moon. Dancing lights encircle him, blaze with violent heat that washes over his gaunt and haggard form, forcing a retreat that cannot come, instead leaving a huddled inhuman mess to scrabble for safety in the dirt. A face materializes from the flames that ring him. A glint of steel in eye and hand, it strides forward, unhesitant. A final plea flees from the broken thing, lying beneath its unflinching gaze. I am your son. Your son. Your Cut short. The wind limps along, dolorous and dragging, each breath pushing its way through leaden air, to fall, a whisper, upon deaf ears.