Attention is not choice. We tend. This God dance every time we tell each other we love each other: every whisper from behind the stars, every comet energy thrust, craze, all of it is dance intended. Doesn’t come with plans. Ours for us. Mundane is ridiculous.Fantastics over the moon, pace the joy walking water, sweating sheets, yeah, dance.

Let’s do something. Watch our bodies and thrill each other. Climb, surf, ring, get sand up our ass. Listen to our images and put our hands all over them. Take it to the nines. I’m not waiting on you — I’m with…



Turn around and see yourself self, twirl, sight, whirl again and face you: Your twenties when life was forever, thirties threw you under the bus but in the end defended you. Forties will show physical (not how you see or how you feel, you still think you’re twenty). Fifties to nineties keeps the dream alive. What do roster decades even mean? Life jugs the price to pay — natural skip-alongs as if we knew better — no time to play games. Is your hair on fire?

We think of this as time but it’s not, it’s passage. A scene to…



Considered lifetime is not justice. It takes more of them to encircle the self settling into acceptance. Feelings running rapids down existence, barnacles mold the underbelly until pace reflects the ages. Breaking fell, the fall of it, turns tides into choices, seas into dreams, the sky — one vast playground — the sounding.

But that’s for one, what if there were two — a relationship on the go? Where do the answers lie, one assimilates for the other? Articulate connections and spot-on foggy-love builds the boat that weather’s the storms. Their breath fills the sails, their muscles row. They do…


Clear truths and mysteries are inextricably bound. We are nothing without history, but not part of it; sitting birds on a wire looking down only at the next feed. The mad mouth stops, satiated, turning food into self; time to fly.

We play in our heads never playing out. Mother’s call to supper ignored, father’s strap unheeded, light of the days tires of us. It is all rise — simple duration. Kick the can into imagination we run through the clouds to another realm, history doesn’t know what to do.

Whispers and nimble, the youth dust falls around us like…



Light doesn’t fade against darkness. Not much difference in the atmosphere but still-night is coming. I can’t button my shirt, can’t walk a straight line, I lie as in a painter’s canvass character unmoored, night happens without control.

Taste and smell nap. Sounds around themselves quiet, separate, they never figured stop. We can end this anytime we want, but not ending it, we continue, like sound.

Silver springs we. Lit up and ready to go. Give to the given, the face we rely on. If for once we could squeeze us, singular us, and feel the love we give to…



Dance till the crying stops. Push your body to the edge of asking. I’m abashed and pinnacle at how the feelings come. Signature over-lords enigma. Take it for a fox trot, a rap crazy, a jazz pulse. I would baby. The future is simple as holding hands. Our someday. It tickles and hurts and blood on the cross. Not the god, the stone we understand. Legion thrill of battle eyes on the front of this drop of a heart — The on.

Manage me, rub me till I no longer have a psychical, take my senses beyond the moon, make…


Photosfor you_Pixabay

Signatures discriminate how we believe it, petals the wind, handprints on the sidewalk. Physical boots — the face we show, gyved like something for each other so we wait for the next ass kick: next virus, shooting, disaster, heartbreak; Pushing daisies; boots matter — mettle.

Coming back from death, a new chance to go again, wisdom comes through a silent business card left on the table, threaded for commercial but no number to call. We aren’t soundless. We rage and think loud, crush stuff just cause and peal the day. Tell me how life shuts up?

We hear the roar…


Skitter Photo_Pixabay

Given the sky palette, the chances are endless. Construct is us. Air will either way through walls or windows, fears, or happiness. Hallway drafts is our fault, we let it in. There is no sliding through this, but we make it and call it choices. The sky waits for star-dust return.

A wooden door spotlights the glow of afternoon sun. Fading by seconds — brings another paragraph, another seer. Crumbs of the craft caught in a moment. Sometimes that’s all we get, sometimes we catch it, sometimes the swirl of perfect thought fades as quick as the sun turns.




Taking time off the wall and looking at it as it ticks like it means anything — sorry for nothing. The years run gambol true to the risk; how we all scramble, rise and fall in this what we think of as thinking. The right of it? How we consider time when half the time we don’t know what time it is.

Jesus, it’s already four o’clock. It’s getting light out, I have got to go to bed, oh thank god, I can sleep a few more hours, damn it, what time is it; I’m late.

Skipping over stones into…



Breath pushes and pull-gives and takes; the take it takes. How doesn’t matter, spirit is never done. Looking at you looking back at me, no oxygen left in the room, I won’t understand a world without you in it, you curious gulp.

The leap bones bare honest. We can’t lie to that. Go on, go run down the beach and fill your hair with wind the color of the sky. Let those eyes search the horizon blue, the deep, where we all come from. An old religion, a snake dance with a thousand arms; eating one’s own tail. …

Michael Stang

Creative, Writer of stories, Editor at Storymaker. What can will.

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