48/52 January Piece/s


Oh how the puzzle begins to intersect, for all great stories thaw into twine.

A mother coughs staring at the moon.

A baby laughs waiting for the traffic signal, when it is nearly noon.

A sister kneels one last time in the wit of thistle that is her life, bad habits, much strife. A father, immeasurable, unworthy of such a title as to carry any form of legacy slips into loud pockets of blame. And all of the doubts within, and irrational fears built by stories coincide into memory’s infamous fame. 45 stories she’s writ, writes the hand of a man dipped in shame. A man of witness. A man to blame. To blame others as well as self. A man of question. A man, woefully full of universal claims.

What is it to be a man, anymore than it is to be a woman? This unwritten expression old as feelings both blame and shame, wonders onto parchment here. It is dipped by what was once quill. It is dipped by history and differences as trivial as anatomy. And it is wondered upon again and again, twirled at corners until the paper cannot help but find itself twirling.

What winter soldier would like to explain? What winter warrior would like another round at this? Perchance parchment, you can drip a refrain. How difference makes anatomy the end all be all to something as simple as: everything. From pay, to prey. What flake of snow may drift and beckon, or know another game?  A fair one. An easy one. Easier than this mother earth’s place.

And so questions drift beyond parchment, beyond man of woe. Beyond the place here, and into the space where wonderings go. Out.

Outer rims, drafted notes sit in empty rocket like bottles, thrusting onward through time and space hoping someone will hear the message of an otherwise empty bottle. Here a message, curled from questioning, awaits to be read. Washed upon a shore, a universe perhaps parallel, too parallel for they never intersect. They exist alongside one another, so that the writer may find a hopeful point of intersection. Hoping all the while for a universe perpendicular. For dark shores here, give way to a differed, angular tilts, happy new years.

Otherwhere. Out there. Somewhere. You are living perpendicular to our own boxed differences. A device of labeling. Our chemical made of mere specks, arranged the same, but different by appearance. Drifting, you are perpendicular to hear, and reach out, if only to give us hope that we may see beyond our limitations of eye over hEARt.

Dust. They aren’t mere mortals, they are more than specks of us. The dust of perpendicular rays, cascading hope from a more studied, happy star. These dust particles may come back from galaxies away, to cascade into a room upon a writer’s busying parchment, now lacking space–so that he must wrap it up shortly. These dust particles settle into the cracked embers of an E, the carried I, and sleep on the Z’s between.

Sun rays. Thank you for carrying between the world’s, leading the charge of stars, we see. What can be learned by these specks of dust? Potential? That beautiful potential for a day unlike those had by mother, sister, and now pockets of blame.

Who awaits this beautiful space? Asks the traffic personnel, waving on cars endlessly through her route, her day. Nearly being hit for the third time as she hopes the children to make it to and from their access point safely. That which robotically moves, with succinct vision, more proficient than any stoplight for reaction can take place. Devoid of emotion, at first glance, much like a cactus, per chance, she moves them on their merry way.

Who awaits the potential better space?

Asks the woman on her way to a date.

Asks the woman amidst a date.

Asks the woman avoiding a date.

Asks a woman after a panic, a curse, wishing the man had been suctioned away by the forces, the embers beyond. That from outer space. If not take me to another place, take the memory. Or altogether, take him she says to the potential better. This unjust, too often cruel place.

Who awaits?

Me too. The women each step up and state. And the man too. For though the woman needs no other voice than her own, she can never diminish from allies. Each orbits. Man and woman of good intent. Each bright planets. Individual but linear. Each of cosmos, and in another place… each could be stars. Stars worth galaxy’s revolving doors. Stars of gravitation, not only on par with the planets, but of CEO. Of title. Of wonderful possibilities, paving their own destiny, their own way. But it is only ’48. And the man writes of only possible possibilities and dust settles on the log of the hopeful.

It is only possible in another, outer space. Another decade, lightyears away. It is only brought on by change.

So each E and I, carrieZ a transmition, signals of hope toward a better future. Toward you dear reader. Toward another sister or ally whom awaits.

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