"i love you, cavraletta"

i love you like the sun.

we spoke aloud, embedded in the ether, like fireflies in the mist, violent and obscene, shaking the trees to the ground.

i love you like orion.

a collapsing, a folly, defined by the unexperienced, movements not becoming of what we truly were.

i love you.

creatively speaking, behind shadows and moonlight, making the most of inevitables, making the least out of what never was.




cavraletta, in the moon. cavraletta, in the light. cavraletta, dream of day. cavraletta, dream of night.

-Cameron Bordwell (1872)

"we know far less than led to believe..."

...and then his eyes shifted and settled into recess, his words trailing off, as if to become yet another fleeting fact, fading to fiction in the autumn air. I watched him, fixated on his gaze, as he immersed himself in whatever was unfolding, materializing, in his mind. I worried, albeit briefly, that everything was finally catching up to him, that maybe somehow this man, this indestructible being, the epitome of strength and selflessness I'd come to idolize, to emulate, to cherish, to love, had finally broken under the weight of it all. We sat there for a few minutes more. I let the moment envelope me like sunlight, hoping that it wouldn't be the last.

in the hole, two years gone

timothy sicretta spent most of his time like the rest of them, tucked away in that hole on the outskirts, on the edge of space, waiting for someone to find him, to recover him, to dig him out of the shell he fabricated for himself. secretly, though, he enjoyed it. he enjoyed the solitude. the reclusiveness. it was him, whether he care to admit it or not, it fit him. he wrote this, quietly, in his sleep one night. it goes:

I couldn't tell you 'bout my lovers,
Nor 'bout the time of day
Or things that glow in murky swamps,
And things that fade away
Or those who come and stay a while
And share all that they know
Or those who see the gloom in men,
And simply choose to go
The facts remain, however trite,
That we are simple beings
Whose place in life is smaller than,
A token in the sea

i never understood it. i never tried to comprehend what might have been going through his head. it'd been too long anyway for me to even begin to realize what may have been going on in his mind. "it's in the dreams," he'd say, and i'd believe him. he did have quite peculiar dreams.

"fabricated responses"

i may return.
may?
yeah. hopefully not, though.
why's that?
because.
because why?
because if i don't then it'll have all worked out.
what?
everything.
everything?
yeah. everything. the plan, the stakes, everything i set up. everything i gambled on. everything.
but what if it doesn't?
then i'll come back. we've already established that.
oh.
yeah.
well, i hope you come back.
why?
i mean, well, not because i don't want it to work out for you. just because i think if you don't then that'll be then end of that. the end of us.
i'm going away. wouldn't that be the end of us?
i guess. maybe not.
well what good is it staying around here?
i don't know.
exactly.
so...
so?
so, i don't know.
well, neither do i. but this is better that staying around here.
why?
there's nothing for me here.
oh.
not anymore, at least.
well, good luck, i guess.
thanks.

seagulls'

"think about scandal. think about a mother's love." the time when his father passed out on the couch, unknowingly locking us out of the house until his mother came home, spent from an unsupportive job, hours after the neighborhood went to sleep, and took what might be considered illegal to some people. "shit happens" says the tacked up calender hanging inside the glass of a hollow garage. "think about a tree house. a tea party. a fort." i never had the privilege of a tree house. i feel like somehow, maybe, i missed out on a crucial part of childhood. like not reading "where the wild things are" or playing tee-ball. what kind of person would that have made me? "think about a death. a tear." is it possible to have one without the other? i can't. i'm emotional. i'm concerning. concerned with the what/who/why. what kind of person does that make you? to have one without the other. "and what the aurora looks like in the arctic." it shifts, like a tumbling rock, or a withering tree, from one life to another. i imagine it to look like heaven on psychedelics, if such a thing exists.

"love it would be much better"

"i've known for a few weeks now," he started, bringing a cigarette to his lips, igniting the tip with a quick flip of his finger. "the fact that it's true really doesn't make any difference."
her body shifted, a subtle, uncomfortable movement linking the past to a present awkwardness. "so you don't care?" she asked.
"well, i care. how can i not? but really, what is there i can do about it?" he spoke calmly. assured. convincing only to himself. a slight breeze blew though, shuffling the papers on the table. she shuffled again, purposely distracted by the noise.
"i don't know. it's not like i really had a choice," she said.
"no. you did. and you made it, albeit the wrong one," he countered, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.
"how can you say that?" her emotion poured from the ends of her sentences like broken dams. "you're such an asshole, you know?"
"yeah, well, don't act so surprised. it's not like it's anything new."
a silence grew, slow but heavy. the two sat for a moment, soaking in their forced discomfort.

hexafractal spermwhales

two minutes into the future a bomb goes off south of tel aviv in a market square at the break of dawn and children scream for their parents and the fathers beg and pray and bargain for their daughters to be safe while half way across creation a mother drowns her son in the frigid cuyahoga. her prints are latent and the smell of christmas is fresh in the air. newspapers scoop it up like dogshit while the priest puts the silent to rest. five minutes ago a young child loves his neighbor in the vein of every television show he's ever saw. a dispicable act is concieved and carried out and the paper beneath his dresser describes it as "holy" and "destined". in a day or two it all blows over but the tastes still swim in the synapses. my mother said once that the truth is the only thing that will set you free but i think it was all bull shit because i heard that, years later, in a rundown movie theater.