Category: AI Art
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17.11: Liturgy for Black that Remembers
A Liturgy for A Black that Remembers Of ReasonWe gather at Vantablack.A surface that is a hole,a pigment that is absence,a door that is not a door,but a consequence. We speak to the Black That Remembers. Of PortentsThey slow their steps;their instincts hum a warningolder than sight. The crow,feathered in a lesser dark,names it for…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman and the Haunted Slow Cooker The slow cooker hums monkish chants at midnight—a low, greasy dirgethat smells of Wednesdaysand possibly the 1520s. The old woman pries it open:inside, a stew that definitely contains: Wormhole carrotsA whisper of “buy more sardines”One pearl button (from a shirt she never owned) The cat, not hers…
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15.11: Journal of Thoughts
Senryu we left the lights onas if love might lose its wayin all that silence Haiku fir trees heavy-limbed,footsteps vanish into duskone warm room remains Written for SenHai Saturday. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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14.11: Vantablack – The Liturgy
The Architecture of Vertically Aligned Carbon NanotubesA Liturgy for Vantablack — The Colour That Is Not a Colour I. Of AbsenceThis is not a colour, but a hunger—a surface so deep even light forgets itself. Its texture is velvet without body,warmth without heat,the shade where memory waitsbefore being born again. II. Of PerceptionTo look upon…
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13.11: Journal of Thoughts
River Reflections trees bow toward their sleeping echoes;the bridge repeats itself in hush;the water holds two heavens at once. — three-line jueju in English winter river stills—trees and bridge breathe twice in glass,sky drifts underneath. — haiku Written for Ink In Thirds “Reflections” ©Misky 2006-2025.
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13.11: Ten Things of Thankful
1.Thankful that I was able to catch a photo of this before sunrise clawed back every flash of hoar frost that was left overnight. A hoar frost is one of nature’s true magical exhibits. All it takes is a cold, clear night with calm, dry air to form delicate ice crystals. As a child, I…
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12.11: dVerse Prosery
The Coming I stirred the embers with a bone-handled spoon, watching the light ebb from the fields. The year was thinning; even the crows sounded hollow. Yet I smiled, for then and not yesterday, I learned to know the love of bare November days before the coming of the snow. It was a respect without…
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11.11: At the Intersection of Odd Numbers
A Way In The door had always been red — not bright, not cherry, but the dull rust of dried blood and arm-folded resolve. Brigid pressed her palm against it, feeling the wood grain beneath the scabs of paint, crusty layers that reminded her of scraped knees, sun-hot pavement, blood blooming through grit … and…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
The Old Woman Explains Thanksgiving (and other Impossibilities) The cat’s draped across the kitchen table.One paw outstretchedtoward November’s windowwhere a plump pheasant strutsthrough the frost. “Why,” the cat begins, in a tone suggesting a legal challenge,“do Brits not have a feast?And why is that bird so rude,…and so large?It’s taunting me.” The Old Woman sighs,wiping…
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8.11: Journal of Thoughts
when beauty touches bone Senryu sunset spills its firewe talk of dreams in silenceas if time were ours Haiku dune shadows deepenthe desert holds winter lightlike an old secret Written for I Write Her’s SenHai Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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