v personal literary writing literature poetry short stories essays


  TWITTER   |   About   |   Poetry   |   Short Stories   | Mud Hut Dialogs   |   Prose Poetry   | |   Essays/Opinions   |   Reviews  
and the rest is history sort of......DAVID EIDE.COM








Reflections at night when the dark is good and we see farther. A short meditation.
"A silent conjunction between what one thinks and what has been thought."


Brief Tales on a Whim.
There is nothing more pitiful than the storyteller without his stories.


Meditations on the 60th Anniversary of Hiroshima What would the end of the world entail? Do we boast that we can imagine such a thing?


3 short stories. $3


In the apprenticeship period hopes are high.
"But then, who will save us from our own crimes?"


The manuscripts are under $8.


I always liked saying when I was down on Earth, "we are all in the universe now," and I meant it as an initiation into our new situation down there. We were trapped in a way, we were figuring that out. We congratulated ourselves on describing the nature of the trap but regardless, those of us who could feel knew we were rats running wild in very predictable paths long figured out by whomever. We were trapped and rushing through something we'd never thought about before. It was us, we were it, who can explain the inexplicable? We got lodged up in the future someplace meeting with our own projections out in the inexplicable, entertaining ourselves with tales of conquest even though we were trapped like the proverbial rat. I would think about it, laugh and then try to enjoy my day the best I could. I wanted to fly spaceships as a kid like science fiction heroes. I wanted to levitate and buzz along without hindrance. I wanted to fire laser guns and meet beautiful women from Jupiter. I never thought of the glories of the past whatever they were. So now we rush through the inexplicable I can see it now but when I was fastened down there like the other rats it meant a great deal to me.

It was either silence or poetry I thought. But what is silence? What is poetry? I had nothing profound to say and began to figure out why I had that thought. Why would I think it was either silence or poetry? Well, I had a prejudice against noise that was certain. Noise had driven me from the city. But everywhere I went there were giant noises, sometimes a jackhammer in the street or a jet flying an approach to the airport. Silence explained things in its own way. Poetry was just wild celebration for being alive disciplined by the need to be self-ruling. It was that tension that created music and color.

* * * * * * * *

Spinning in the loquacious colors that have no name. A kind of new vibrancy you get to see if you do it right. Animals with thoughts or forms with eyes. So blackness turns a horizon down to see the splendid fellowship of matter. Where is the heart? That thought appears. In this babbling, watery substance there must be a heart. It must be living. Heek! Thrak. So done the gods go down to the twisting down spout so. "They have pulled us apart madam." Ah, frozen faces billions staring embedded flattened. So my own. Eyes fierce like warrior. He-beast swollen in empty pride. Tongue sticking out. So feral are those tongues! Tiny hands carrying us down into the blackness. Boldness! Required of us. So said the dead.

Return to the More Serializations

Go to the Space from the Beginning