Features by cosmicbound
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AUTOPILOT (rev. 7 OCT 18) Pictures came in waves; distorted and disjointed. With the pictures came distant and nebulous pain. And as each wave rolled by he soon lost his finer memories–the pictures were blurring together. The waves were murky orange and they heavily obscured his vision. Through the dark ocean he peered out, seeking answers. Whenever he felt close to seeking the truth a collection of tiny voices called out with the rolling surf. He fought their call but invariably his eye lids grew heavy and his eyes were unable to focus on anything. Deeper into the water he was dunked where he waited for the next wave.
Time was the tide. At modest levels—neap tides—the picture and waves were subdued, revealing little. It was during the rare and extreme spring tides when the most vivid pictures struck him, riding along the roughest surf. Months or more of apparent time passed between such spring tides which, as hot colourful blurs, lasted from w
in retrogradehere again i name myself an elegy for soft.
the ghosts unstitching their mouths–
impossible inevitable inconsequence.
the remainder. the echo. the wake.
pared to the bone, marrow unraveled;
a web of stars racked to the machine. soft;
you dead dreamweaver. threaded-needle-tongue.
here again this slingshot orbit cups an untouched moon.
claim yourself new. become untouchable. you remember:
this reassembly, this reinvention of choice.
become a fist pressed to the apex.
cut the compass out of your mouth.
soft; unspeak yourself again. you remember:
this funeral sacrament of a stopgap creed,
vacant planet unspun to wire–
clear the airwaves.
close the seams.
So Many Vile Things He stared at S'Tori as the plasma blasts rocked the ship. They were going to die certainly, but it didn’t stop Sharra’s overwhelming love for her. Was it selfish of him to want to die happily like this, next to the person he loved? Even if that love may be one-sided?:thumb695583751:
“Release the Xani-bots.” He spoke into his telecom and watched a couple of Vorcian ships explode as the robotic beings encased them with their mechanical limbs and crushed them. Sharra made a mental note to thank Dr. I’lleer for his brilliant creations.
“Why did you want to see me, Sir?” S’Tori asked, her voice startling him. The damage the Xani were causing made him forget about his assistant for a moment.
“I wanted to talk to you.” He said, red lights flashing as more plasma shots crippled the ship. “Do you think we’re going to die in this war?”
Gasroot EtherI see in one grain,
scared of silver
snakes swimming in the milk;
(save all my love
for Denver
and the rot of leaving earth
in slow, ascending footsteps)
I see in one cool window:
the ghouls and goblins rushing
rushing rushing
rushing to nowhere-
to a moon already plucked
of its best ambitions
to a pooling of the hate
in gravity wells
just beyond the layers of waste
choking out the light.
And here we are, on ground marred
cinnamon and clove
like burnt briar dogs, spitting orange
rattling our teeth for blood;
whispering old venom
in tired shades.
Here we are.
Blockades“Planet earth is blue and there's nothing I can do,” Dr. Vincent Laurent sung to himself as he pulled up the patient's chart on his tablet again.
She was lying in the bed, looking paler than usual. “So what's the diagnosis, doc?”
“The diagnosis is the same, Tanya. The tests just confirm what I already know.” Vincent took a deep breath. “We don't have the expertise or the equipment to treat you here, like I've said before. I thought maybe we'd missed something but it's definitely -”
"Doctor?” she interrupted. “My name's not Tanya.”
Vincent jerked as if he'd been lightly shocked. “I'm so sorry,” he stammered. “Of course, Kristi.”
Kristi shook her head, smiling. She reached out and touched his arm. “It's fine! I don't blame you. Honest. You and all the staff here have been nothing but kind and helpful.”
Vincent didn't meet Kristi in the eye. “I appreciate that.”
the daughter universeLonely men, I’ve noticed, will pay off their little houses
and live in them by themselves until they burn down
from a dead gas pilot and 80’s paperback philosophy.
In other words, out on one hundred highway north at dusk,
which is a daylight’s ride from the sack, the dunes simply
spill out on the road; the crazy thing being, nobody’s worried.
Keep driving until the damn thing just ends at the last rogue pier
on the island’s tip. There’s a dark night beach on the right
and if you wade into the waves, about 130 feet, east by northeast,
you’ll find a miraculous shoal where the salt from a trillion graves
will wash up on your thighs and the moon searches the dark pitch
of water like a frantic mother. Pick any wave and follow it fondly
until you forget of me,
here.
