words | spirit
©2023 michael raven
The spirits are trying to say something to me that seems vitally important. Like the lumbering idiot I am, I can only make out bits and fragments of the message — but whenever someone takes the time to verbalize how a name is spelled in a dream, it is likely absolutely imperative that I recall that spelling.
Continue reading “Talking with spirits”©2022 Michael Raven
trapped in waking everlong 'lectric lines dancing with blue fire oktober skies fallen grey a bad stumble is all before drifting away like a nameless stranger on the wind, a skittering russet leaf over broken asphalt in the distance their hungry screams
©2022 Michael Raven
my drifter mind seduced by saudade wanders lengths of abandoned streets bound to melancholic memories of neverwere the cloying scent of oblivion tugging at the ragged edges of sleep
“I know how to find the Dream Country now,” Lachlan said, sipping at his coffee, the tendrils of steam rising from the black velvet depths in the broad stoneware bowl someone had the audacity to call a mug. He sat back in the wooden booth polished by age and rested is arm on the high back. Too hot, apparently, to drink. Instead of bringing the cigarette to his mouth with the hand holding it, he leaned toward the hand instead and took a long drag, held it and with a languid ennui, breathed it out.
“Bullshit,” I said in a not-unfriendly way. Lachlan had been talking this crap for years now. Most of his friends, the ones who stayed through this little obsession, well, this was the point in the conversation when they’d walk away, ask for a to-go cup and suddenly find themselves forgetting a previous engagement. Those were the smarter ones, anyway.
No one ever accused me of being smart.
Continue reading “Liminal Doors.”
sceadugenga 