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The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching

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  The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching The atmosphere over Pine Creek churns before it breaks. The sky stops being a distant ceiling, and tears open into a fevered, gestural vortex, churning in fierce ribbons of cadmium gold, raw ember, and bruised ink. Here, in the suffocating stillness of the build-up, the heat plays violent tricks on my inner eye. As the squall gathers, the twisting ironwoods and fractured ridges don't feel empty; they crawl with the uncanny belief of the Little People, low-slung, watchful phantoms spun from wire, red dust, and dry static, waiting out the road's fragility. Every jagged branch and swirling filament of cloud becomes a face, an arm, a sinister presence breathing inside the rising storm, drawing the traveller deeper into the delirium of the interior. Pine Creek Storm Front Torn black filaments of wind and shadow seemed to claw straight out of the atmosphere, dripping down like hot tar, twisting through the spindly ironwo...
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Celeste Dysfunction

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When finally the dysfunction is realized I can relax
I knew it wasn't me even though I thought it was me
Such relief
It could not have been me
I would not have done that
In childhood and in adulthood that could not have been me
Astonished I gasped at all aspect that identikit me
No matter what your accusations be it was not me

So without hesitation, I sought mutual agreement
A third point
In order to displace self-accusation
To the wave on the horizon
Away from the imposter me
Far away and off-shore and outsourced
Separation

The appearance
The identity
The division of function

I am not to blame for the character you saw of me
Your perceptions
Your analysis
Your transference
I may dominate your emotional recognition
I may feel in the scope of the known
I look at you knowing that you think I am you
But what you are is not me





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