Hello Goodbye

So I have been writing her for 3 years now, and published 201 posts.
I'm ready for something more sleek, more professional, more versatile, and more beautiful.
So goodbye old blog, hello new: http://thethunderandtherain.com/

I will still be writing and posting exactly the same sort of stuff, just on my fancy new domain.

Remember you are loved,
Gabriel

November Wednseday

Dehydrated eyes
Cold toes
Itchy, flaking shoulders
Slightly sore throat
Stuffy nose
Early midnight
Five PM
Hot honey tea
Drafty breeze
Old books
Sleep

End.

Natural Religion

Everything we see is sin

We left our safe and animal spirit behind

Our fall from grace was the breath of god filling our lungs

When we beings of dirt became aware of our nakedness

When we first killed out of jealousy

When we built towers out of brick and farmed the land

When just being was behind us

The son showed us the way to go back

He taught us heaven was here

He taught us that our flaw wasn't who we chose to have sex with

But our ability to imbue it with guilt and punish those we deemed unworthy

I'm supposed to go back to work and type things and make spreadsheets

Instead I'm writing poetry

A small step back toward god

Being present and motivated only by my desires

End.

20th Century Romances

Making Tracks

The cigarette man
Gets soot on his hands
As they tremble toward his lips
He tried to explain
Then he got on a train
And he left on a one-way trip
The girl by the tracks
Watched him turn his back
Pining for one last kiss

Saturday Night Speakeasy

Bar, busy and warmly lit
Bustle backed by smooth jazz
Eyes flashing through smoke
Glasses filled time and again
Smiles, honest laughter
A soft touch, a nod

Hotel bed soft and deep
Pinstripes and hats on the floor
Gasping smooth lips
Flushed faces, pounding hearts

Night a spinning blur
Asleep in gentle arms
Then dark

Morning cold
Pale skin and blemishes
Unceremonious dressing
A smile, thanks, and a nod
Door closed, keys returned

An empty room
Satisfied men strolling separately home

Domestic

He punched her in the face with a closed fist
As she smashed swiftly to the floor
His brand dripping down her lip
She remembered soft touches and sunlight
Sunday afternoons and sweet nothings
They both knew she deserved it
Only men can take another lover
It said so in the bible

Back Door Man

He was a back door man
A smooth talker
A heavy box lifter
A jar opener
A kitchen invader
A fried chicken eater
A countertop lover

Until her husband came home unexpectedly

Then he was a fist catcher
A bruise holder
A floor stainer
A dirt grave filler
And a missing person

A homemaker's mixed memory
Of pleasure, guilt, and fear

Heroes

Heavy labor, sparks, sweat, and blood
She gave everything and more - still raising their kids
He gave everything he had in that far away land
Screaming, choking, blood, raining earth
And came home damaged forevermore
They did the best they could
Love, fear, and poverty - still raising their kids
Many years mixed with happiness and struggle
After everything they held each other tight
And went on to meet their reward

Under the Apple Tree

They smiled, hearts racing
They tenderly touched
They slowly explored
They trembled and giggled and frowned

They touched and caressed
They searched and they fumbled
They awkwardly rubbed
They found their way around

They quickly undressed
And they spread out their clothing
And made love on the warm, sunny ground

End.

Halloween Poetry for 2014

So I didn't upload any Halloween poetry this year during the appropriate time. Here it is in spooky mid-November instead:

The Thrasher-Slasher

It's a sowing machine of knives
An in-and-out pattern of taking life
Each of the 36 stabs a stitch
But stitches won't fix these slices
Rhythm / pull
Rhythm / pull
In and pull
In and pull
A red tapestry eternally unsown
Fleshy fabric punctured
Skickity-skack
In and then back
A sweatshop of tears, blood, and water
A workshop of rhythmic slaughter

Before the Aftercare

Chains and whips will fix
Ropes pulled tight and quick
Slavery / satisfaction / security / safety
Pleasure and pain mixed with empathy
On display / skin exposed / spanked red
Then kissed ever so sweetly

Bleached & Refined

A little ghost flits
on Halloween night
between the porch lights

Candy held tightly in her fists

The trick is that the treats
though sweet
will someday make her flight less quick

When insulin‎ is low
and the memory of thinness distant

The haunting and taunting
of the sugarcane spirit
beckons sweetly in the night

End.

Unmorning Person

When I wake the dreams still cling tightly
Their lovely tentacles pulling, caressing my brain
Sleepy thoughts swirling cloudy, gentle
As I climb out of bed and reassemble slowly
The pieces of those dream-worlds remain
Visions of impossible beauty sentimental
Coming down from the transcendental
Sunlight crashes in and burns the feelings that remain
Morning moves through my bones unkindly

End.

WIP: The Manifestation

As the being broke into our world, there was a loud thunderclap. Its many wings unfurled to fill the entire sanctuary of the old stone church and its body was wrapped with golden light. On its shoulders was a head with four faces, each equally majestic and terrifying: an ageless, genderless human face with sharp features and brazen eyes; the face of an ox with rippling muscles and curling horns; the face of an eagle with a peircing stare and a razor sharp beak; and the face of a lion with a wild, golden mane and long, ivory teeth.

The parishioners were filled to their bones wth fear, and fell on the ground covering their eyes.

It's head among the rafters, the angelic beast spoke with a voice that sounded like a chorus of mighty trumpets. "Be still!" Its voice rang out, and upon hearing these words, the people gathered there began to raise their eyes to meet his many faces.

Slowly, it knelt down on one knee and leaned toward the priest; who began shaking again and took several steps back. His thin, gray hair rustled in the wind that now swept through the church, and his face dripped with sweat.

Again, the angel spoke.

"You have received the favor of the Most Holy One who sits on the thrown of Heaven. I have been sent with a message for you and the faithful among your flock. So says the Lord your God:

'I have sent my angel to rule over your church, but he has come a long way and you must give yourselves as an offering to build his strength in this form. Choose 50 men from among yourselves to feed to my angel. Bake for him bread with your flesh and make him wine from your blood. Give over to him as servants all of the women and young girls of your church; giving them careful instructions to satisfy his new earthly flesh. Melt all of your gold and precious metals and bring them before him along with all of your rare stones and monetary wealth. Follow these commands and I will appoint for you a special place before my throne in heaven.'

Thus says the Lord."

A scream escaped from one of the faithful. A man fainted and fell to the flagstone floor. Most again looked away and cowed low to the ground. The priest wore a look of horror but continued to meet the being's gaze.

Slowly, he gathered a small shred of confidence and cleared his throat. "Oh mighty angel of the Lord, I am unworthy to speak with you."

The faces answered, "Speak freely, my child."

The priest took another step back and mindlessly attempted to smooth down his garments. "Why has the Lord commanded this? It does not seem like him. I cannot understand why he would ask something so abominable of us."

The angel frowned and his wings sank. "Do you not remember the story of Abraham? Did not the Lord command him to sacrifice his own son on a flaming altar?"

The priest looked somewhat relieved, "He means to test our faith."

The faces nodded solemnly.

For a few seconds, the priest looked around the chapel, gazing over the people he knew so well. "So be it. We will answer the call of the Lord."

When he finished saying this, several people tried to flee down the aisle away from the angel. The heavy wooden doors at the end closed themselves with a loud BANG, and, try as they might they could not open them to escape.

The angel stood again, the wind at his feet rushing ferociously. His golden light cast black shadows between the pews and behind the pillars along the walls. He turned and climbed the stairs, sitting on and crushing the alter into a splintered wooden throne.

WIP

My Very Real Fears

I've been reading the web comic "Deep Dark Fears" and I realized that contrary to what I tell myself and others, I really am afraid of some things. So in the name of complete transparency, here are the ones I can think of, though I'm sure there's more.

I'm afraid: 

• That all of my grown up teeth will fall out at the same time and I won't be able to replace them with anything because my gums will be rotten. 
• That I will die and realize that everything I believed was a lie and I'm just awake in total blackness... Then I slowly realize this is hell. Nothing. Forever. Alone and awake.
• That I will wake up and remember I don't have a family, that my wife and daughter was a lie I told myself to keep from being alone. 
• That I'm secretly mentally disabled, but all of my friends and family play along to make me feel better. 
• That I'm suddenly so fat I can't walk or fit through doors and I just have to lay in my bed and slowly die. 
• That my daughter will lie and tell people I touched her and everyone will believe her and take her away from me and my wife will leave too. 
• That I will die without ever having written something really good. 
• That I will be swallowed up by the ground like the dream I had when I was a little kid. 

The end, for now. 

The First Day

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

All matter was formless and void.

A tiny pinprick bursting with potentiality.

Even time was born in the space of an instant.

From nothing the cosmos was thrust out suddenly.

It was catastrophe, cacophony, a symphony of chaotic noise collisions.

Smashing atoms blasted through the empty void in an explosion that created light.

It began with a word, everything spinning out in spiraling expanses of energy and space.

After eons, order took over and beat back the invisible enemies into nonexistance.

Everything started falling into place as magnetism spanned the chasms.

Orbits forming smashed molten matter into spheres.

After cooling, life grew slowly on their surfaces.

And starlight ran a hundred million miles.

Embracing earth for the first time.

So there was evening and there was morning the first day.

End. 

The Inevitable Knife

I only kill when I feel I need to, never out of rage or for a measureable gain, and only on the rarest occasion. I get this craving like I just really need a good cry. It wells up in my gut like a strong emotion, and gnaws at the base of my skull like the fuzzy warnings of an oncoming migraine.

Until I kill, the sickness grows. These days, I try not to resist. When I'm sure it's the sickness coming over me, I simply ride out the rest of my work day then drive home.

When I get home I slide through my evening responsibilities in a blur of dinner and kissing my wife and watching television and cleaning the dishes and brushing my teeth and listening to my wife as she talks about her day and we lie down in bed together and turn out the lights. Then, I lie on my bed in silence, eyes wide open, listening to the house settle in the darkness.

I wait for her breathing to become slow and predictable.

I wait for the traffic outside to become slow and sparse.

When my house is asleep and my neighborhood quiet, I rise from our bed and get dressed. Usually, I get my favorite filet knife from our kitchen drawer and, making sure the sheath is closed safely, I tuck it in an inside coat pocket.

I really love my sedan.

The grey, dimly lit interior is quiet and clean; a contrast to our noisy suburban lives. In the darkness still hours away from sunrise, traffic is light. Early on I learned not to plan where I was going. I learned to let my mind wander while I drive through hill after hill of identical houses. After driving many miles through the night I find a place to park out of sight and take foot.

At this point in the hunt the sickness feels like a wave of depression. I can only just manage to think clearly enough to find a victim.

It's usually an early bird and a jogger. He or she wears a hoodie and has earbuds deep in their canals. They never hear the knife. My attack is swift and deep, a bright flash from ear to ear. They gurgle and the hot blood spills over my hands as I lower them to the sidewalk. The sickness subsides in a rush that feels exactly like the runner's high I used to get in high school. I disappear into the suburbs just as the horizon begins to gray.

Moments before dawn I lie down next to my wife. The relief and the crash from the adrenaline flood in as I turn to cuddle under our silky sheets.

For the following weeks everything is pretty normal. With the sickness gone, I go about my days with a sense of euphoria. I see the bodies on the news, followed by a smiley family photo, then weepy interviews. I don't feel bad. I only kill when I feel I need to, never out of rage or for a measureable gain, and only on the rarest occasion.

End.

Project 157, "Wolf & Gun" for Dan

We learned to live in quiet many years ago. The Bright Things are now a distant but chilling memory that hangs heavy every time we migrate past the hulking, empty cities.

My grandfather says that nobody knows what really happened. Everything was normal, and then it wasn't. The Bright Things came from the sky, and everyone looked on as our greatest toys and weapons were turned to dust.

Timidly, over time, we learned what we were allowed to do. We could grow crops, but only on small plots and with crude hand tools. We were allowed bicycles and horses, but not cars or planes.

The Bright Things never spoke. They never had too. They were silent gods inflicting their will through a quiet, terrifying wrath.

My grandfather says things are better now, that we're happier because disease, sickness, and hunger have all but vanished. I couldn’t tell you either way. I wasn’t born until after the singularity.


End.

Inspired by portions of "Artificial Intelligence as a Positive and Negative Factor in Global Risk,” Written by Eliezer Yudkowsky, and edited by Nick Bostrom and Milan M. Cirkovic as well as "Common Sense 283 – Summoning the Demon" by Dan Carlin