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Xallan Sep 23
Your question has been heard. The wilderness answered.

The wilderness sipped at all exposed veins,
slapped every exposed limb,
kissed each individual cell even if concealed.
Nature is insidious.

The dawn descended from under the soles of the feet, up from inside the earth.
Gargoyles turned back to stone,
dinosaurs became plastic figures,
demons retreated into the shadows
and recesses of the mind.
The night brought the wonder of imagination
to all the suspicions of day.
Dawn restores humanity to ******* eyes.

Upon the collapse of day,
wildness reigned.
The wilderness surrounded every artificially lit step,
just beyond the brilliant ring of certainty.
Light is a barrier created by
the eyes for the world.

Emotions leave the body at night.
The earth leached them back into the bloodstream in fear of the sun,
restoring urgency and certainty and purpose.
Dusk chased dignity to tombstone mirrors.

When the last bright clouds disappeared like smoke from a dying ember,
from an ashy joint,
the night drew out every emotion
and gave it a form,
with wings. They grew teeth for biting,
tongues for swallowing,
throats for singing.
We were left here,
among branches and thorns,
toothless and boneless
and without wings.

We were made in defiance of nature.
We identify with the stars and use clouds to make cars. Our minds are quicksand and oobleck. Slip and solidify and astoud,
at once soft and hard.
We attempt to tame the wilderness within.

We were made with
the purpose of creating a world to our liking.
We must live, must do, must be.
We must create
more than thought,
think more. We must realize our dreams
in defiance of nature.

We dreamt ourselves machines.
Our machines will dream themselves human.
Nature does not dream, it does not ever sleep.
It cries and throws its fits of anger
with broken oceans
and
fluid mountains
and
shattered storms.
It demands we answer its question:
Will humanity stop dreaming?
Xallan Jul 22
We like to credit the mothers and fathers
For a world full of broken children.

Volatile individuals who disappeared, vanished
Leaving more broken people behind to fill their holes
Leaving nonexistence.

They gave the world to their children
Like they gave the future of all the children into his palms
His palms are soft, defined by lack of wear, by absence of fear.

Palms that carry a psychological burden.
Defined by folds and wrinkles and lines which twist and deviate like choices he will make
Family heirlooms that have crashed to the floor with the swipe of a careless hand

So when he held the vase he felt the weight of the missing ceramic shards and learned
You can't fill broken things with more emptiness
Or define integrity by cracks which twist and deviate like the choices he made.

He doesn't want to have the hands that press the red button
He's thinking about the children, he's thinking
About being a child.
  Jul 10 Xallan
Jo
The world is too small for me.  
The land, with its palette of
Green, the malachite feathers quivering on the
Brown, rough boughs of trees, that sprout from the soft
Earth, dotted with flowers, their petals
Prismatic, broken rays of a rainbow -
Red dust stained with
Yellow grain crossed with
Violet air blended with
Blue seas that stretch into darkness.  
I cannot see in the dark, and the sky,
The sky is bright.  

I am compressed.
Filled with the need to stretch out my arms
And let the wind
With its opalescent hands
Carry me into the atmosphere
Like a meteor
That fell, the fire of its descent stripping away its rocky flesh
Leaving behind only bones made of skin
Returning home.  

I could speak to the stars.
My words traveling through the void of space
Silent, but not voiceless
And marvel at the heat touching my blue lips.  
I could touch the sun.  
The fiery eye surrounded by bright, unfurling rays -
I could pluck them
Like the daisies I had thought so magnificent as a child,
Their soft, white crowns served as the stars
To my younger shadow.  
Their tangibility comforting
In a large world.  

My, how I have grown
When the world has not.  

I would preform ballet on the bands of light
Being drawn into my own black hole.  
The ravenous hollow created out of destruction
And when my body breaks apart
It will do so with the light.  
I would waltz from asteroid to asteroid
Their metallic bodies cold beneath my bare feet
As they spun, empty and lonely -
But I would turn with them
Smiling and laughing silently
And I would feel free.  

There is so much
In my sky
Past the blue.  
But, no matter how tall I grow
Or how high I jump
Or how far I stretch out my arms
I will not ascend
To where my heart has gone.
Xallan Jul 3
You were never to be thought to exist
Wherever you start, having an end place in mind guarantees nothing
About whether that place is endless
Home is a vehicle and this is your wheel.

I wish I could say to you
You are of my creation,
You came to life from my fountain pen
You bear some derivation from me
I do not look with despair upon things beyond my touch.

The only thing for sure is that our atoms must have collided somewhere in the past
Before the thought of you, and of me
Until these words, which have no atoms
These words, which I built and shaped with my hands and my head
These ethereal, incorporeal words
Skimper over your heart built and shaped by a grander poetry.

Every fish will come back to their creek eventually
Not all of them stay.

You may never want to be where you are
In time and in place
There will always be a taller tree you could climb
It may not take your weight
It may bow you to the earth
It may break and slam you into the sky.

Hold on to the good in horizons
Those heartbeats of land you might put a record needle to, and hear music-
Hold on to what to people say
Those concrete memories which will crack and warp with the roots you grow-
Hold on to the sensations
Those drugs both sweet and savory messing with your imagination in unimaginable ways.

In all of this you will be collecting atoms for a robot
Which you must wash with humanity every night,
You must dunk it in, you must shower it, you must pour humanity all over
Until your wires and synapses fry on the energy of yesterday and buzz with the electricity of tomorrow.

There is no self to be, only one to become.
My child, my child. Hear my words.
You are not the child, of mine.
  Jul 3 Xallan
hannah
black,
crested with water
beneath my sinking feet,
the sky is a shaking grey
filled with
fumes
from a saltwater tide;
while the sun lays a hollow,
swollen bleed
above my shut eyes.

i can taste the ocean,
i can hear the rising breaths
before they flow from up her lungs.
and in that moment,
the briefest, most fragile moment,
before her hands touch my skin,
I think i feel your ghost,
creeping up and soaking in.

her body wraps around my toes,
as the silence brings your voice.
harsh, in the wind,
i realize that you aren't gone,
you've embedded your soul into the
crisp blackness of her.
and so I breathe.
I swallow the air.
because no one really dies,
they just find something else to live
through.
Xallan Jun 23
They come in with the outside all over them
He's covered in soil, her nails are grimy.
The atmosphere around them is thick
with the scent of smoke, and ashes trail them.

The music doesn't stop, but the whole restaurant
Stops and silences to look at them
For a brief moment.
One shouldn't make assumptions, but everybody does.

They aren't out of place. This is their little empire,
Over which they rule.
With ***** nostrils sharp as a hound, they sniff out their rivals
Over there in the window seat.
With ***** knuckles encrusted in gold and opals,
They hand a soiled Franklin to the barkeep.
With ***** money they buy opulence.

Voices low, they share smalltalk. They discuss their imports of tomatoes and tea.
So good at exploitation, they exploit themselves
But, they have a rough dignity. It inspires a condescending awe.

Rough work, but they're rich.
She has a Mazzerati, with bulletproof tires, caked in mud.
He has a wardrobe full of shiny shoes, limited edition, coated in mud.
They're *****, and they know it. They love it.
They want you to know it, too.
The business of 420 is more than a business of numbers.
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