Month: March 2006

Digital Story v4.1 Sunday 1:32 pm (since the dates on this cursed blog are so messed up)
I have my Dad’s hands, hands that love to touch and create and build
and rampage.

I lie on the living room floor, legos spread out before me:
a sea of plastic possibilites. I hear their call

I feel it in my hands which seem to move of their own accord: searching, grasping, fitting.

My elbows burn as they sink deeper into the carpet. I feel I have it, this love, this need
to build
order from chaos.
to create. Or at least to try.
Then,
My hands fail, the pieces fly,
I feel the rage come to a boil, screaming through my veins.
I see myself from a distance, knuckles white as bone as they clutch what are now only remnants,
as they macerate.
And my dreams skitter across the room.

Digital Story v4
I have my Dad’s hands, hands that love to touch and create and build
and rampage.

I lay on the living room floor, legos spread out before me:
a sea of plastic possibilites. I hear their call

I feel it in my hands which seem to move of their own accord: searching, grasping, fitting.

My elbows burn as they sink deeper into the carpet. I feel I have it, this love, this need
to build
order from chaos.
to create. Or at least to try.
Then,
My hands fail, the pieces fly,
I feel the rage, the boiling blood and steam
I see it as though from a distance, my knuckles white as bone as they clutch what are now only remnants,
as they macerate.
And my dreams skitter across the room.

Digital Story v3
In my hands I see my Dad. I lay sprawled out, , the the living room floor’s soft carpet burns, rough on my elblows. I see how I have it, his love to build, to press together, to feel the order of meshing gears.

Until the gears slip, the joints crack, and the base slips away. My blood sizzles, and with a swipe the neat lines and angles are crumbled, dissolved to sand, and swept away a sudden gust of wind. I shiver, and pick up what is left of my creation. My destruction