The Dice Tower has been completed for some time. After printing this Dice Tower1 off, I had plans to make several posts regarding the print, but it took me a month to take the still photos of the print and during that time, I chose to upgrade a portion of my Original Prusa i3 Mk2, specifically the RAMBo Mini’s case hung on the back.
Image Source: Wikimedia
Gothnákh, you foul rat! Take your grimy hands away or else I will gore you out, just like this hole you will be cold and stone. You left me on heap of straw for bed while you ran off for war with the pale-skinned and sun-walkers— Coward!
Gothnákh, for maggots you spat me out in this cavernous filth! I ought run you through for making me snaga to be slid over by slavering gangs with hunched jaws!
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I don’t have much to say about best friends, but when thrusting a shovel for treasures, a wooden handle feels like rubbing money. Real Estate prices are rising after all.
I want to unbury the truth about my profession: the dirt is soft seeping around my fingers dripping into muddy rivers. In winter, it is thick frozen like rocks. My knuckles shiver. I prefer bare hands.
Image Source: Wikimedia
March on men of war Bum… Bum… Bum… March on to the beat of the drums Bum… Bum… Bum… March on with the flag March onward to the battlefields March on to the thunder of the cannons Bum… Bum… Bum… March on o’er hills and through valleys Bum… Bum… Bum… March on! March on, heed to your King March on his hand gestures and command Bum… Bum… Bum… “March on!
Fifty-two years of marriage had on Elms Road A willow tree and a gravel, dirt driveway A black furred, brown footed dachshund named Blackie Picnics in the backyard Flea market front yard sales Coffee at four in the morn, what a child’s getaway— Crayon dinosaur wallpaper Baked beans from Great Grandma’s newspaper clipping Frozen hotdogs served fresh Anxious gifts given even without money
Car rides, iced tea, and Elvis’s songs The Blueberry Festival and more yard sales Fears of meat besides poultry, pork, and beef Her purpose motherhood, her strength family Drummond Island’s rocky shores, sandboxes and sand bees, no electricity, no running water, ice cream at the teepee, nighttime fires, a sinking pontoon Niagara Falls and a hand-holding competition
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The last bite I taste—the morsel: warm bread. I sold rights, freedom, bought the field, though poor, I’ve inherited field, but not a bed.
My stomach wrenched taut; no food when I plead. Law pursued, a sign ahead: abundant. The last bite I taste—the morsel: warm bread.
Through cities I searched too low for my head, what rest for burdens leaves you wanting more? I’ve inherited field, but not a bed.
In Loving Memory of William Carlos Wright
October 9th, 1929 to June 29th, 2016
Let me not forget to remember how quick things pass— how many years will take flight and fade the colors of my mind; are tears really so helpful? Hope is stone not scarred by wind— strong and gentle, like the Manistee flowing through winding bends, more certain than steep banks. What has come was taken, couldn’t sink in one’s soul is like lost keys by holes in pockets and painful to forget.
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The merchant returns, the port cheers him and there he anchors, to resupply his empty hold. Old farmland horses pull carts down the docks to his great vessel.
Hooves plod the sea-drenched harbor, smells of salt moisten the air. Wooden wheels clatter past rowing fishermen who’ve come to port from the City’s warrens for the morning market opening onto the bay and brine,
the merchant poises his back and locks his neck, clapping his hands with festive shouts reading the docket, and to insure this voyage’s goods, he eyes the curious mariners asking him about the itinerary and ready to work Unloading and hauling, his sailors arrange the fresh crates in aisles and towers,
Image Source: Wikimedia
I approached the field, my eyes met the stems across my palms I held the harvest— calloused furls, smooth ochre, future straw bales and sackcloth flour for market, storehouses and homes; supported by tillers.
The Farmer observed his hired hands. Their backs rotated—a clock face of tanned skin with shoulders wide; from dawn their arms ticked to dusk, leaning arched and stiff. Singing they gleaned and planted, but from their work, none could make the wheat grow.
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“From the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven has suffered violence, and the violent take it by force.” –The Christ Farmhands smacked their tongues in burnt air, sweat slid along their brows, down as sweltering sunlight rippled and obscured the ground. From a furnace, their souls’ found relief in sweaty palms. For each laborer a satchel of seeds and broken steel.
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I I couldn’t tarry, so I wandered the dusty road for work. My destination loomed ahead—yet my thoughts remained captivated with the wheat, but I stopped at the tall and charcoal gates that imprisoned the City on the Mount.
Behind the walls a horn blew tumbling thunder. The dreadful sound bellowed earthquakes in rupture, the horn’s tone split—gales pulverizing woods, whistling and moaning, a darkening came on storm clouds.
Image Source: Wikimedia
Limp I faced the hill. Like a child, swung and the bells pealed. Above the road I looked onto a wheat field. The Farmer winnowed. The rope frayed into chaff blown away by the wind. The sun rose and the flies, biting, were devouring nails.
Clouds swayed, turning black overhead. The arms of three trees curved into music’s bow. Innocent blood on a hill. By day the trees sat taught atop the hill, against the full rope, the braided melody hummed in lashes when the bow’s hair was pressed and drawn.
