Week 49-22 - Haibuno

5 December 2022

To feel anything
as an ephemeral I
in tranquility

Keep starting, erasing, rewriting, erasing, starting over, again. Again. A perpetual motion machine that is always on the fritz, inducing madness.

6 December 2022

Tell me an ending
narrow road to perilous
an evanescence

I will tell her story as another story as a metaphor for pain and grey. 6,000 onions burst into flames on the interstate, a horde descended with barbecues, smokers, roasters, and camp stoves at the ready. I scribbled wildly in my notebook, cursive, all caps, print, chicken scratch, just jot it down so I don’t forget. A 20 something woman wearing a vintage polyester flower power suit slowly spit roasting a mallard over a propane grill. A 75 year old grandpa with a severe case of eczema marinating an aardvark. A raucous pack of teenagers led by a wrinkled them in a safari hat colored head to toe taupe carrying a rhinoceros impaled on a flag pole. It was screaming bloody murder wrapped in the dusty remnants of an American flag. A murder of crows fell silently from the sky and a pack of hardcore scavengers weaved in between the crowd to pick them up breaking their necks swiftly and throwing them into hobo bags over their shoulders. The onions were slowly caramelizing and a thin cloud of white smoke rose over the carcass of the overturned truck. “Ayiiiiieeee” someone yelled, and a keg of the cheapest beer known to mankind exploded in a barrage of semiautomatic gunfire. “Buenos Dias señora!” “Yá’át’ééh!” The Wild Wild West was all right here shitting itself out on the side of I-40.

7 December 2022

Intermittent spew
a volcano wrapped in hair
to follow the brush

One person tells the tale. There was only one survivor, only one left to do the telling. Their genius, inspired and purposeful, was thoroughly informed by the fruits of years of toil and study. They hid away in a tiny village near the sea. They swam near boiling hot pots and shivered under aurora. Their sister intercepted interlopers to cover their tracks. They lived life obfuscated, so the tale would not wander. And it never did, for years. Until the day they received an email from a stranger from abroad. “I’m writing a book about survival would you retell the story?” And they did. And wasn’t it the same? There was a difference as small as the difference between a dime sized spider and a nickel sized one. The sliver of difference as meme went viral. They said one thing, and then they said another. And then their life in shadows unwound, and there were no survivors.

8 December 2022

Downhill excitement
sunshine blades through ice rimed trees
accomplished. Tired.

Allure of memoir memory altered alternatively memorialized all maternal. You can hear its call in the wee hours of the morning. A mournful wail. Ma…ma….ma. Majestic and merciless.

9 December 2022

Gas leaks everywhere
asphyxiated unknown
a red carded tank

What she was telling me didn’t quite register as reality. Only because that reality wasn’t part of our reality. The realization of that reality is unreal. Introspective retrospection brings clarity, but reality remains elusive. More deep breathing ahead.

10 December 2022

hoping for some interest
opening the space

Froth: rage + resentment + bitterness + business + sycophantic revelry = tiny bubbles sizzling in overdrive.

11 December 2022

Escapism cringe
turn it off before we barf
drown me in nature

The blitz of holiday madness is all consuming. In like a rampage, out like a thud. The bang is left to tejo, and mired in overconsumption. Is the crisis real, or imagined? Cannot fathom using cringe to entertain. Have we replaced relaxation with total constant and perpetual anxiety? Must have the adrenaline buzz 24/7. And we wonder why we have to take a “pill for that” every hour. Our power to say “no” has been neutered by the internet. Is it any wonder everyone is so filled with rage, when all we do is wait.

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Jamie Larson