|This is my 25K kiriban for jade-pandora|
SuprasolarWe call it the Local Group,Suprasolar by neonxaos
this, our neighborhood of galaxies,
in which only a single star
is even remotely reachable.
And we tell ourselves
to dream big.
That hard work
will get us there.
But on the cosmic scale
our collective capacity
For every star in the Milky Way,
all four hundred billion or more,
there is a galaxy.
Even the Local Group
Yet since dreams are orbital
we hold our breath to reach them.
And when we perish in the vacuum
the stars still burn
everything that matters.
Forest fireWe were snaking up the I-84Forest fire by neonxaos
through Deadman Pass
in the Blue Mountains
of northeastern Oregon,
where stories write themselves.
The trees are evergreen, you said,
defiant spruce and pine and fir
protruding from dirt and rocks,
following the death of everything else.
I recall a membrane of clouds
at the apex, a reminder of borders
that should never have been crossed,
as overanalyzed by a tired mind.
It may or may not have been there.
We penetrated the veil,
the first Chevy
to sputter onto the Moon,
monochrome and lifeless,
under a radiant crystal sky.
The fire had ravaged
the land to the bone
leaving us trapped
in the rib cage of the world.
Something else descended
into the desert below,
but it was no longer us.
AwokenFor years I slept with open eyesAwoken by neonxaos
and fibrous dreams, cut into shapes
so real to the touch.
It took a shock to wake me up
and shed my baby skin.
The cold is raw now,
honest and lethal
to a naked body,
solid in the throat.
Light once imagined
shines no more.
Love once whispered
now rings hollow
among the echoes
of the dusk.
StarpulseTen foldsStarpulse by neonxaos
around and around
that lucid pain
& sing across
the great divide
like a pulsar,
a throbbing star.
Let them hear you
long after you fall
through your heart-hole
into the never/ever
& keep them wondering
Visitor's guideIn small-town AmericaVisitor's guide by neonxaos
that biker dude at the local Circle K
will greet you every time,
by name, even, after a while,
and he will ask you if you're OK.
This is not an actual question,
but that is all right.
In small-town America
you should not ride your bike
while wearing a shoulder bag,
hanging like a koala bear.
A school bus will eventually pass by,
the kids will laugh their asses off,
nice Mormon bros will call you "nice" and "bro",
and a '74 Chevy will nudge you into a ditch,
endangered, like a koala bear.
In small-town America
you should not just turn left for the hell of it
if you don't want to see a giant old man
straddling a John Deere, wearing nothing
but nearly swallowed shorts,
massive gold-rimmed Aviators
and a double-barreled shotgun.
You should never ever wonder,
where he keeps his extra shells.
I was a stranger,
but you spoke to me,
and I wish I had known
how to actually answer.
MissionaryMissionary by neonxaos
I’m ready to be used, you said;
but you’ve no clue what I could do
to you if you let me.
It isn't a matter of control,
a matter of fact, a sense of the matter;
it's the thrill of losing them all.
Will you declare the same
when I gain the bend of your thoughts,
or take your latest hours for myself?
The turns you take yourself
lead you down predictable roads;
I choose to close my eyes.
I want your hands, your mouth—
not your eyes, or even your concern;
just the weight of you over me.
Let's draw the blinds and see
what primal tongues our bodies choir
in the cosmos of the dark.
PressureSomething broke.Pressure by neonxaos
A hard CRACK while sitting in
a soft chair. No pain registered.
The absence of it
is like watching explosions in space.
You follow the curve of your skull. You remember
how skulls are formed like tectonic plates.
Your head wants to be a planet,
volcanic, living, in change.
You continue to your left shoulder,
the one with all the problems.
But today, it has nothing to say.
Your rib cage moves
like oceanic waves, expecting a storm
that hasn't come.
You stand up,
you consider your legs,
nothing feels wrong,
But you can break
more than your body.
Splinter helixEMBRYOSplinter helix by neonxaos
a derelict building shifts its swollen form
wire cage elevators moving carefully as it swallows
nestled in a womb of fragile concrete fibres
the child of paint and pastel colours stirs
searching blindly for that energetic outside world
it stretches its delicate arms like an earthquake
Tell me where you come from, what you remember
of the black ground. Talk in riddles only your kind
understands, talk in flowers, talk in thorny branches.
You crack the foundations in starlike patterns, and
you stretch the heart of you for the concrete above,
longing to carry the sky as a bed for the Sun.
the twisting flesh of the whistling tree
blankets the screaming mud with salt
in a lush park tended by arthritic backs
an old man sits with a young girl
as devils arc their spines within smiles
they discuss the taste of snow
They know the end grows high, grows nigh,
outgrows the star dome like parasite patchwork.
The invaders never came, they were the ground stones,
The day the leopards diedAlarm clock - check!The day the leopards died by neonxaos
The city humdrum - check!
The noisy guy upstairs - check!
The sound of running water - check!
The angry woman on the phone - check!
The furtive cat legions, stray, spoiled - check!
The wars on TV, clamorous, onerous, futile - check!
The shadowy stalkers returning to their hideouts - check!
The mother, worrying about offspring whereabouts - check!
The birds - a farrago of doves, gulls, sparrows, crows - check!
The dogs - spaniels, Great Danes, retrievers, pomeranians - check!
The plumber, wanting money for that job he never completed - check!
The bugs, the critters, the noises behind the walls, the eyes in your kitchen sink -
Check, check, check!
Everything accounted for, I look outside and find no leopards.
You would think that this was natural. This is not
leopard country, but I feel their absence elsewhere, and
I wonder why all the city eyes look inward.
So I walk.
I cut into the sunshine
and sail the concrete waves into
the green - no leopards, into
the blue - n
|My Daily Deviations. Splinter helix is a collab with my good friend winterhill|
In her madness writtenIn the mountainsIn her madness written by neonxaos
the words came down like
hard and ruinous.
In her solitude
she was a goddess
of her design.
In this state
every word was power
darkening the black,
outrunning the light.
In her descent,
she lost the gift
In the sanity of the valley
revisits to what was written
revealed no subtext, no method
but the open deep.
On these pages
she found a stranger’s words
startled like a bird flock
never to be caught again.
Inhabitant 4They saw her many faces from afar,Inhabitant 4 by neonxaos
how lines were drawn across her lips,
how mountains rose and kept her mouth
Blackened skin, valleys far, from nose to neck
from chin to
she lacked the personal sphere, at most
a wisp of listless air
remaing there, incapable of moving
her detaching hair,
floating solar on the wind.
She is waterless.
She is red skull.
Her days burn her nights,
and her sonic waves
ran out of ocean
UnbuttonI declared love dead.Unbutton by neonxaos
There was a ceremony, and I did the obituary.
"Dear love. I told you so."
Then the burial of an empty gesture, broken
promises integrating with the earth.
I visited the grave, let my fingers run
along the unmarked stone. I would sit at the TV at night,
awash in a sea of detergent and other peoples' wives,
forgetting everything about this. One day I just woke up cold.
And it was fine.
I wrote my acceptance on the inside of my door.
Life is full as it is. Full of spoons and dirt and ways to slowly dig.
Full of reflections on what passes and what does not.
Curled up in itself, a wad of dirty bills. Life is
blue smoke drifting by. Life is consistent in its own confusion.
Rocks and boneheads, sticks and stoneheads.
Some people are dancers, wings for brains, others are dredged from the shallow sea.
We are mud people, grime, flesh, palpitation,
and sudden flashes of staggering beauty.
Life is what grinds the mountains and moves the oceans.
Life is the fantastic terror re
MouseMouse is in the wall.Mouse by neonxaos
He listens for your breathing.
Mouse is in the wall.
Whiskers on the outside of your inside,
he feels for signs of loss.
Homes in empty spaces,
halls between our thoughts.
Mouse is in the wall.
He listens for the cracks,
the notches and the secrets.
A tiny nose vibrates,
an eager tail explores.
Mouse is in the wall.
He writes his unseen stories,
surrounding you like dust.
The money breaks.
The high-rise falls.
The ground thunders.
The skies fault.
Mouse does not flinch.
This is meaningless to him.
Mouse is in the wall.
If you listen, you can see,
if you focus, you can hear.
The blank spaces crawl
with secret punctuation.
The city lives between the lines.
Every dark space populated,
outlines for our being.
Without this we are shapeless,
horizontal stories, vertical lies.
Little claws are digging.
Mouse is in the wall.
ResolveWalk in the sand, drown your dry cracked feet in the ground.Resolve by neonxaos
Step on ideas of glass empires, visions of what the dust has been.
Beyond the curving dunes you feel the antispace, the vacuum of possibility.
Step forward, human child, relentlessly drawn into the coming dayfall.
Light shower your nakedness in the potential final dawn.
Leaving red steps in your wake will show your juggernaut resolve,
and you must point your heels in all directions. Let nobody think
that you were ever sure of where to go. Mark the journey,
because it outlives the destination that will devour your body.
Nothing runs like the horizon, until you lift your eyes.
Being-in-the-wordStanding on the rooftopBeing-in-the-word by neonxaos
reaching for that
elusive silver lining.
If I grab and peel, I expect
a silver skyslide, imparting
a new way with words
and finally some
All that happens is that
my hands grow oddly long
and older. They make
that only I can see.
They make noises
like paper crumbling,
then burning. But where
is the smell?
I stand there,
contemplating for hours
of annoying seconds, each one
pecking my skull, reminding me
of things I wasted them
I need to separate
what makes me an individual
from what makes me
a repeated meltdown.
I inhale - and suddenly choke on
For one moment, the answer is clear,
I fumble for my pen, and feverishly
I decorate my left hand
with the sum of my existence.
The ink rapid snakes up my arm
and spots my bright-wide eyes;
the mindfire fizzles.
I am at peace,
The midnight cold wakes me up.
I can just make out the moonlit words:
"Fuck all this
I'll just go with BLAH!"
|My Daily Literature Deviations, chosen by the fine folks at DailyLitDeviations|
Feels like lifeIt feels like I'm aliveFeels like life by neonxaos
in a quirky kinda-sorta way.
I think I can taste the sky,
marshmallow hue on a
windy blueberry pie.
I'm a leaf on the wind,
I fell and missed the ground,
watch me soar, my darlings;
through breezy summer smells
I hear my brethren calling.
It really feels like life today
in that quirky kinda-sorta way -
something bubbles in the distance -
there is music out of synch -
now dance the best you can.
SeamsEverything falls apart at the seams,Seams by neonxaos
but every seam can be mended.
Just read the invisible stories,
the candid tattoos that every living body wears
as a second skin.
Our marks define us, no matter
which side they are located on,
in or out,
up or down,
if you look for long enough,
there you'll find your map.
Take a deep breath and communicate your findings.
Expect the unexpected.
Follow the sudden smile and keep going.
This might lead you where you want to go.
Monkey on a StickI'm a monkey on a stick.Monkey on a Stick by neonxaos
Watch me dance my little dance,
my bell-shod feet forever tingling,
since everyone fears the silence
of simply being.
A living sea of speckled sameness,
a black-brown-white and yellow-reddish
amalgam of fur and jingles
swaying like torn-up seaweed
in a raging sea,
by the powers that be.
Tingle, jingle, jangle, baby,
zombie monkey menagerie,
Jangle, jingle, tingle, maybe,
we are champions of uncertainty.
We have the will but not the means.
We have the power but lost the reins.
We are an incoherent skein.
Dance, dance, dance, dance,
until we paint the world with veins.
Jingle, jangle, mangle, baby,
The bells are ringing, always singing,
Tingle, twinkle, sprinkle, maybe,
the choice is not to rhyme.
WingsHers was the love of hisWings by neonxaos
stories of earth
And his was the love of her
ideas of air.
A compromise entwined.
Without their fragile union
they would have lost
Hers was the gift of
And she said:
"Would that I could
exchange your eyes for mine,
just for a while, just a single time."
His would be the
world above the clouds
and hers would be
the weight of the sky above.
His was the power
of gravity's pull
And he said:
"Would that I could
exchange your feet for mine,
just for a while, just a single time."
Hers would be the
world beneath the sky,
and his would be
the weightless space below.
His was the love of her
And hers was the love of his
feet on the ground.
And as the world
caved in on itself,
they never lost
|Randomness from my poetry submissions.|
RatsRats by neonxaos
"What's that, dear? Flight computer cramping your style again?"
"No, rats, you idiot! Real ones. You know, as in brownish-black stinking one-pounder rodent sons of bitches?!"
"No, outside in the vacuum of space, Einstein! Of course they're in here!! To my knowledge, we've found no indigenous space- rats as of yet."
"Well, kill the damn critters, willya?"
"I give up! Were you born this stupid, or did you take lessons?"
"Well, I did go to grammar school in…"
"Shut up! I can't take it anymore!"
And this was where Elisa decided to dump her boyfriend. That night, the rats took a serious beating. They should have stayed in space where they belonged…
Elisa was not that kind of girl. You know, the fiery kind. But something happens to people when they're enclosed in claustrophobic little compartments for months, or even years, as Elisa had been. Cabin fever. Space pilots had developed a catchier term for it – cockpit cuckoo. And that was exactly what Elisa had
The Escape - beginningRyan Ohmaru was on the wrong planet. Or perhaps he was on the right one, but at the wrong point in time. Or maybe it was some kind of dimensional mix-up. But everywhere he went, and no matter what he did when he got there, he felt more or less out of place. Like an extra piece in a jigsaw puzzle, like a fish out of water, like one cliché too much. And that had been the way of things for as long as he could remember.The Escape - beginning by neonxaos
Presently, he was studying Japanese in Europe, with a minor in English literature. He was born in Japan, to a Japanese mother and an American father, but his first language was English, since he moved to the States with his mother at the tender age of three. At the time, his father chose to remain in Japan. "Business" was his only explanation, when prompted about the split. "None of your business" was his mother's. This was Ryan's life in a nutshell. Born in Japan, grown up in the US, and raised in between, mainly by stewardesses on board countless flights from L.A. to Toky
The Lady and the TreeIt was a lazy afternoon, Old Willow thought, hanging as he always did, on the edge of the ravine. He knew his days were almost up. The fall couldn't be far off now. He'd been suspecting the ground of mutiny. For the last fifty years, it had been creeping away from under him, his roots retreating backwards, desperately clinging on to...The Lady and the Tree by neonxaos
To what exactly?
He was a tree.
He had done and seen it all; the whole Tree Experience exhausted years ago. All the corners of Treehood visited, scrutinized and expended.
Then something happened.
A girl appears. Time changes, then dissolves into something else. An eternity passes, or maybe just a second.
She said, in a golden voice 'I was Fortuna, always is what never has been. Can you wish that you were me, for now, for then, for ever?' The girl was tall and slender, dressed all in white, except for a joker's hat and red, red boots. Her white hair shone in tandem with her skin, and her green eyes were radiant, piercingly intelligent and completel
Leaving New YorkI had sold the apartment, and I had said my goodbyes. I had wandered through the steam, the noise and the familiar mélange of smells, I had gone venti at Starbucks and plenty at Dunkin' one final time, and I had still wondered why people eat pretzels as I distributed my last one among the bird nation that is Central Park. As a squirrel crawled up my leg, over my back and along my right arm to snatch the very last piece from my cold, living hand, I thought "it's just that kind of city".Leaving New York by neonxaos
I had smiled at the cab drivers in their yellow-black monstrosities (those colors are nature's warning signs for a reason, you know) and I had wondered for the last time why anyone takes a cab in New York City when there are trains running underground through the veins of the city, and all cab drivers in the city are madmen, inexplicably drawn from every corner of the planet with the sole purpose of being in each other's way, scaring away any potential customers and being furious about that. Obvious
|My short stories in all their short glory.|
|Hello guys. I've been showing my works for free here for nearly ten years, and I never asked for anything in return. It would be cool if I could at least get my Premium membership paid for, and why not go all the way and extend it "til Hell freezes over", which is a seven-year membership that costs a whopping 16K points. Help me out if you like my work and have a point or two just, you know, cluttering up your inventory.|