Our ancestors knew this was wrong.
Author: Nick Pipitone
The Center of Things (a poem)
i’ve always admired monasteries
monks cloistered from total noise
alone with demons
swimming in silence & striving
for divine union that no one
can name, but only point
to, the center of things,
the seat of the soul
(Photo by Josh Couch on Unsplash)
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Nervous (a 6-word story)
I asked my lover, “You’re nervous?”
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Snow-ground (a poem)
what have i become?
this place feels familiar –
sights, sounds, sensations
like softness of blankets,
wrapped in cocoons in
woodland winters
lying on snow-ground
ice crusted on my nose –
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Rejoice! (a poem)
come join this feast!
bring broken souls,
rejoice before a table of treats
we’ll set a fire above stones
dance around it
with wild guilt
watch us twist & turn –
shaman beat their chests
children laugh with glee
night falls, the fire rises
the feast at its last course
time for the children to hide
as we carry on
(Photo by Joshua Newton on Unsplash)
Note: This is a collaborative poem I did with Rachel. I wrote a couple lines and then she wrote a couple lines. We plan to do more and share them – it was fun!
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Silence of Winter (a poem)
the silence of winter is not
such a terrible thing –
graying snowbanks by roadsides
reduced to slush & a thick sky
cold & like the finest cotton,
naked trees, dying leaves
hanging for dear life
reminding me of sledding down
icy hills, red plastic breaking
leaving shards to be buried below
like black bears snuggled in
warm caves
(Photo by Fabrice Villard on Unsplash)
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Hunger (a poem)
The Nightmare Center (a short story)
“Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy.” – Sigmund Freud
I.
Dylan yawned, leaned back in his chair. It was another late night at the Nightmare Center, but at least he was collecting overtime. The entire year had been full of late nights, for obvious reasons. The election had peoples’ unconscious selves falling apart at the seams.
“Still here?” Amari asked, bags under her eyes.
“Unfortunately,” Dylan said. “I’m working a double.”
“It never ends.”
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Salem (a poem)
I’ve spent centuries obsessed with evil
fingers bleeding from scrawling in notebooks,
searching for ways to banish it
to deep corners of space
away from us
where it takes souls,
twists them in black sorcery –
I wake up in Salem, trembling
witches burn, the smell of scalding flesh
the executioner removes his mask,
smiles – I fall into deep sleep
(Photo by Vladimir Agafonkin on Unsplash)
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On Grief and Ramblings about Faith
As Christmas approaches, so does my father’s birthday (December 23rd). The holidays have been more melancholy since he passed in 2018. The first holiday season without him was the worst of the bunch, and 2019 was lighter. This time around, the grief still lingers.
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