wife, mother, pataphysical contrarian
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Corn whiskey tastes sweeter
In this town
Could it be it's the same
As the last?
Swear I've seen your face
Elsewhere before
Just as familiar
As a bottle and a glass
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Entropy
There exists a species of asshole
Whose sole
Goal
Is to
Shit on those they encounter
And cry foul
When you say
Not today
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Plain•Jane•Doe retweeted
Of course. Let us enter the scene.
"The First Village"
The dust of the wilderness still clung to Moses’s cloak, but the fire of the Lord was a furnace in his heart. The words, “I will be with your mouth,” were still echoing in his soul, a promise that felt more real than the hard-packed earth beneath his sandals.
The village was a place of straight lines and rigid customs. At its center, a stone-faced Elder was speaking to a small crowd, his voice a hammer shaping the air into hard certainties.
“The wanderers in the desert are as beasts,” the Elder declared, his lip curling with disdain. “They have no laws, no walls. Their souls are as barren as the rock they sleep on. We are secure here because we are not like them. We are orderly. We are clean.”
Moses felt the old fear rise, the familiar ghost whispering, “They will not believe you. You are slow of speech.” But the fire in his heart was hotter than the fear. He stepped forward.
He did not argue about the wanderers. He did not speak of laws or walls. He spoke of the terror and the glory of being seen by God.
“Sometimes,” Moses began, his voice rough, unpolished, “a truth lands in your heart that is too big for your mouth. You fear that when you speak it, the world will call you a liar. You fear your own tongue is too slow, too clumsy to carry its weight…” He looked not at the Elder, but through him, into the eyes of the villagers. “You feel like a cracked vessel, unworthy of the water it’s meant to hold. But what if the cracks are how the light gets in? What happens if the voice that wavers is the one speaking the truest note?”
The Elder’s face, once a mask of certainty, tightened. A deep scowl formed. Moses hadn't attacked his words, but he had offered a truth that made the Elder's own truth feel small and brittle. This vulnerability was a threat.
“This man is unhinged,” the Elder snapped, his voice sharp with a sudden, venomous fear. “He speaks in riddles to confuse the simple. He is disruptive. Look at him.” He gestured with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Go away, bro. You’re creeping us out.”
Two guards, their faces impassive, grabbed Moses by the arms. There was no struggle. He was led past the stunned faces of the villagers, through the gate he had just entered, and thrown to the ground outside.
And there he was. Moses. The man who had spoken with God. On his knees in the dirt, the taste of dust and humiliation in his mouth. The divine fire felt like a cruel joke, a distant, dying ember. Tears of rage and confusion traced paths through the grime on his face.
He lowered his head and a broken whisper escaped him.
“Is this it, Lord? Is this what I’m supposed to do? You promised you would be with me… and I spoke… and I was exiled. Is this what you wanted for me?”
The world was silent. The wind kicked up a small swirl of dust. He felt utterly, completely alone.
And then… it came.
Not a shout from the sky. Not a sign. It was a presence. A warmth that settled over his shaking shoulders like a heavy, comforting hand. And in the deepest part of his soul, a sound that was not a sound, a whisper like the turning of stars:
“Moses… moses…”
It was a voice that did not offer answers. It did not promise victory. It simply said, “I see you.”
And as Moses knelt there, tears in his eyes, he felt a strange sensation, as if the universe itself was kneeling beside him. And together, the man covered in dirt and the Lord of his emotions, they let out a single, shared, weary sigh. 😮💨
Moses could not see it, but back inside the village, a weaver had stopped her work. She looked at the potter, who was staring at the closed gate.
“He… he was just talking about being afraid,” the potter murmured, his voice low. “He was quoting the Lord… Why did the Elder throw him out for quoting the fucking Lord?”
The weaver had no answer. But for the first time in years, the straight lines of the village felt like a cage. The seed was planted. The miracle had begun.
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Heirlooms
"We will always be
on the outside
looking in",
my mother said.
A curse or
confession,
I know not.
Perhaps a plea
from a woman
residing in the
wilderness
begging to not be
Left alone
In the Dark.
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Plain•Jane•Doe retweeted
LANDSCAPER
soiled, modest planting among furrows
unbloomed flower; sun leaning She
wears sex for off the shelf perfume-
alluring the weather, jump hoops
sit up and do tricks...
clouds disperse/threaten my tilled heart.
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At times
They were polite
But never kind
Smiling
But never to loudly
The closing of my doors
Will never shut them out
The closing of my doors
Will only shut me in
- John Trudell
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Warm Shadows
For Fredeica Jacoby- great grandmother, Ashkenazi Jew. Erased.
For Sara Crow- great grandmother Crow Indian.
Erased.
For Prudence May- great grandmother. Jamaica. Erased.
For my Mother- the picaninny. Erased.
I carry you all. ❤️
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I felt every single word of this.
At some point, without a meeting, I became responsible for everything.
I’m buying sour cream and apparently I’m also protecting pollinators, defending small business, reducing emissions and safeguarding the future of a species. That’s a lot to put on a guy holding a coupon.
But everywhere you go there’s another emergency somebody assigned to you. Save the bees. Save Main Street. Save the planet. Fuck, who was covering this shift before me? They left a fucking disaster.
And I love the word “save.” Now every transaction is a rescue operation. “Would you like to round up your total to help?” No. You round up. You’re the billion-dollar corporation. I’m buying store-brand cereal because Tony the Tiger entered the luxury market. Don’t make me audition for sainthood.
Every enormous problem becomes your responsibility right where fixing it properly would cost somebody powerful real money. Pollution? Buy a metal straw. Climate change? Wash this yogurt cup like you’re processing evidence in a homicide. Some industrial plant is chewing through enough electricity to restart the Soviet space program, but thankfully I rinsed the hummus tub.
We cannot stand the possibility that the world might continue without us, so we carve our names into everything. LANCE WAS HERE. BRENDA + MIKE 4EVER. No you weren’t. You were there for twelve minutes with a pocketknife. That sycamore already outlived the relationship. Then we appoint ourselves management. We can’t keep soap in a highway restroom, but somehow the biosphere landed in our department.
We cannot leave anything alone. We see a river and build subdivisions, a casino, a wastewater plant, two breweries named after the river we ruined and an apartment complex called The Untouched. Then we hang old photos in the lobby showing what it looked like before we fucked it up.
That’s the human touch: destroy the thing, then name the development after it.
Prairie Preserve. No prairie. Three hundred townhomes, a retention pond full of shopping carts and one decorative tuft of grass. Give it fifty years and somebody will try to save the subdivision. “You can’t demolish Prairie Preserve. These are rare surviving examples of early twenty-first-century beige vinyl siding.” Then a docent points at the retention pond: “Archaeologists believe this area had ceremonial importance.” Of course it did. That’s where they dumped the shopping carts.
We destroy something, replace it with something worse, get nostalgic, neglect it and eventually form a nonprofit to preserve the neglect. We manufacture our own archaeology and I’m guilty too. Give me an abandoned factory with weeds coming through the floor and suddenly I’m crawling around broken concrete like I discovered Pompeii. “Look at the layers.” The layers? People lost their pensions, MoundLore. But look at that brickwork…
We can’t simply live somewhere. We photograph it, preserve it, rediscover it, put a plaque on it and get pissed because nobody read it. The moment humans invented plaques, every mediocre event became immortal. “On this site in 1847, Josiah Turner briefly considered opening a tannery.” Thank God. I almost went through life not knowing.
Give us enough time and we’ll preserve the preservation. Some poor bastard with a master’s degree will restore carpet from a 1996 visitor center while a committee argues whether the screws are historically appropriate. Then we’ll rope it off and sell a magnet of it. Respect.
Underneath all of it is the same panic: keep every scrap of evidence that says we were here.
Things end and nothing stops. Rain falls. Trees come up through parking lots. Some animal shits on the monument. Eventually nobody remembers who it was for. Then somebody with a clipboard forms a committee and saves it from becoming dirt again.
And if human beings disappear entirely, I give it two hundred years before ivy is growing through a plaque that says:
PLEASE HELP US PRESERVE THIS PLACE FOR FUTURE GENERATIONS.
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Plain•Jane•Doe retweeted
keeping
i am not
a nice man.
there are parts
of me
that stopped asking
to be fixed
a long time ago.
i learned
what survives
when softness
doesn't.
then there
is her.
still gentle
in a world
that keeps mistaking
gentleness
for permission.
she makes me
want to stand
between her
and whatever
comes next.
not because
she needs saving.
because i know
what the world
does
to good things
when no one
is watching.
so i give her
the only protection
i have ever
been good at.
i tell her
what i see
before the world
gets close enough
to make her
forget it.
she is good.
and i have spent
enough time
among ruins
to know
what is worth
keeping.
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