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“Each algorithm-curated morsel falling like manna from silicon skies, too perfectly sized to choke on, too sweet to resist.” Google knew the recipe for the feast I’d been searching for all my life, Each algorithm-curated morsel falling like manna from silicon skies, Too perfectly sized to choke on, too sweet to resist. Motionless save for
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“I raise the sheet, I seek the moon, for shadows, thoughts, or signs— a whispered ‘I love you’ soon, to make the darkness mine.” (A Song) [Verse 1] It’s Monday evening now, I’ve scoured corners, bare and bleak— beneath the table’s shadowed bow, where dust and silence speak. Inside cracked vases, hollow, still,
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The freight train steams, a beast of coal and fire, its breath a plume of white, a ghostly spire. It devours miles, relentless in its chase, through valleys deep and summits it can’t erase. Its hunger burns—a furnace, bright and white, consuming all that dares to cross its sight. In its wake, lives smolder,
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I’m obsessed with this keyboard. It’s not just a keyboard—it’s my sparring partner. Typing on it feels like a duel, like it’s daring me to keep up. Unlike those modern, low-profile abominations that feel like typing on a wet napkin, this thing has ‘attitude’. It’s not some passive, limp-wristed keypad. No, this keyboard punches back.
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By the ocean’s edge, where dunes rise high, A girl sits beneath the moonlit sky. She whispers vows to the glowing sphere, As waves crash blue, their song draws near. The salted breeze, with whispers low, Combs through her hair, still touched by glow. She pledges truth, her heart sincere, To the moon above,
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I am a pillar of salt,frozen in place,looking back on a lifeI cannot retrace. Salt the ground beneath my feet,cast out for lack of taste,a barren void of withered seed,choked by ash and sinful waste. The heavens pour,mercy’s rain falls still—a gift for the righteousand sinners who will.Yet I dissolve, grain by grain,a quiet
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Good Morning Yesterday was a fiasco that ended with me eating lemon bread in bed. Crumbs are everywhere, a clothes trail from the front door through the living room, bathroom, and finally next to the bed—the order of disrobing exactly opposite of what one might expect. I had bought a pallet of concrete blocks,
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The pull… to push, With stenciled lettered tiles beneath these worn fingertips, Leads me back to you. As I recall, the night before, When you, my queen, Held court in a palace not our own, Yet made me feel at home. A banquet feast served, My eyes locked on, The beauty, Chalice cup,
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I smoked my first Parliament cigarette today. I’m not a smoker, but I’ve had maybe 40 cigarettes in my life. Second-hand smoke? I lived with a father who smoked two packs a day until I left for college. Google tells me I’ve smoked ‘20 pack-years’(a back year being 20 cigarettes) indirectly. Add my own, and
“All colors made me happy even grey.” Nabokov, Pale Fire
A German carpenter by day working hard to follow a Jewish carpenter, exploring writing as a creative outlet. Passionate about learning through practice and observation.
BB Grey--musings 