Category: AI Art
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1502: Sunday Whirl 744
Plesiosaurs At salty edgesthe beasts drank brineand bit the wind. The tides drag debris;bone, rib, vertebra,a silver scatterunder the tilt of a ruined sky. The jaw of the seacracks open. It does not sip.It slathers rock raw.It vaults the horizonlike a spine snapping. Voices?Gone. Each stitch of speechripped from the throat,salt-packed,swallowed whole. The edges remember.The…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Cat Watches the Sky Slopes (A Tragedy in Four Paws) The cat buries his face in the old woman’s sleeve.“Make it stop,” he whimpers,one eye peeking at the telly.“They’re falling.Tumbling.Cartwheeling through the snow. WHERE ARE THEIR CLAWS?” She strokes between his ears.“They have skis, cat.And skill.And helmets.” “Helmets?Helmets don’t protect dignity!I fall off the…
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1402: Ten Things of Thankful
We’ve had 42 days of rain, not all day (thankfully!), but the reservoirs are full again (thankful), and the water tables are nearly where they should be (thankful) — however the lawn is completely slurpy-squishy, which isn’t going to percolate deeper any time soon. But this week reminded me that gratitude is often not loud,…
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1302: MicroDosing 100 µg
The Bone Whisperer The bones had been whispering for centuries. Not words …just a low, subterranean hum that vibrated through the soles of anyone who lingered too long in the ossuary chapel. The priest blessed. The villagers fled. The crows remained. The bishop declared it miracle or curse, depending on the collection plate. Then the…
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1302: Naming the Unclaimed
Naming the Unclaimed Wolf moon.Orion’s Belt.Sirius, bold and low. She stands beneath them,wrapped in night’s blanket,its hem dusted with memory. Each star is a name she mouthslike a lullaby,like a story left unfinished. Children she never bore,their light traveling yearsto reach her upturned face. Jupiter.Pollux.Canopus. She counts them slowly—not to possess,but to belong. The city…
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1302: Journal of Thoughts
Torsion Without Tear Some days, the world is clear-woven.A linen of light, laid flat, to read the warp,the weft of a leaf,the true grain of a face in the morning. Some days are a slow, internal hand,taking the cloth by its cornersand twisting. There is no rip, no tear.It torques —edges sharpened,but still whole. A…
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1002: Six Sentence Story
Passport Interrogation Part 1, Calais, 12 November 1830 The paddle-wheeler pitched us into France; the quay fatigued by tides, received us without welcome, smelling of coal and old salt. Under a dripping lamp the policeman collected our passports like birds he meant to keep, and we surrendered them as one surrenders breath to winter. Felreil,…
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0902: Quadrille 241
In Wilt and Thirst They bring the grave indoors, my dear.A perfumed death-rattlein a vase. Their vivid throats sing a borrowed song.A final, furious blushagainst cold glass— a love note signedin wilt and thirst.Flowers.See us drown in own deep thirst. Written for dVerse Poets, Quadrille #241 Flowers. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2026.
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0902: The Liturgy
Liturgy for the Provisional Passport (a hymn for the unmoored and ink-stamped, waiting) I. The Arrival Without WelcomeThe quay,it tolerates you.Coal-smoke and old salt.A lamp hissing in the rainan unwilling guard.You step from the paddle-wheeler’s pitchonto stone that has forgotten how to welcome.This is not a border crossed,but a threshold endured. II. The Surrender of…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
An Olympic Curling Critique(Or: to curl or not to curl) The Old Woman is curled up under a blanket,watching curlers sweep icewith a focus usually reserved for bomb disposal. The cat sits on the floor beside her,tail twitching in time with the stones. “Amateurs,” he mutters.“Look at that sweeping.No conviction!No flair!And the yelling —‘Hurry! Hurry…
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