Weighted Thinking

A black sun is rising in the east, a polarized field of white and green light. It is a total absence. It brings the land in its expanse to a deeper spectrum end to end. Why the cognizance of the relative dissonance has staggered the median. There is a darkness on the horizon. Through cracks and breaks, the whispers of strangers who want to be friends, those with desire thrown hazardly  aside. Reason comes to save one’s breath. It is the shadow in the corner that jumps out through the corner of the eye. It is the random clacking of old housing and fixture. It is the sullen memory that walks outside the door, repetitiously pacing the floor, its talons daintily scraping. Dimming roots flourish and expand. The necessity of weighed thinking transmuting itself into heavy breathing has fallen on this satellite. The broadcast that radiates through the air, pierces a sky that’s fallen short, looks on hopefully at the meandering dirigible down below. It knows fate has cast it into the heavens, given a chance to proceed at will, and it hopes as the heat expands, the voracious gasses will not soon ignite.



Weighted Thinking is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.



Lady Peacock

She altered and formed each savoring step. A vision in ebony blue, deep forest greens sparkled like crystals. She was a peacock on the stage, her flamboyance tempered by her pensive nature. She was lost in thought, but not in action. Her fire an aggression that lived in her dance. In each turn and spin, a violent thrust of idea, a depressed perception of man, a black and white, a sense of division, unity defeated by absolutes. The blue light cast on her smokey make up, the lines of her eyes cracked and watching. She tumbled to the floor, a cascade of plume and glitter.

“Lady Peacock” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.



Yellow Moon

The light was dim. The room was awash in the soft buzz of iridescence. I moved close to him, and he close to me. I felt a current between us, a thick air that fuzzed. It seemed to reach to him and pull us together. I kissed him. I was ensconced in electricity. I trembled slightly. So did he. We’d known what we wanted for months; had denied it to our hearts. The golden haze that crowned around us; the cascading rivets of plumes and petals wan with the spark of belief.


“Yellow Moon” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.


To Look In Vain

He took a tentative glance at the screen again. He waited for a response. They were on the other side just wasting time. He knew it. What were they doing? He became anxious in a huff beneath his breath. He’d been at it for three hours. He sat up off the floor again and walked to the bathroom. The lights were bright day light and the vent was running. He dragged from his pipe. The incendiary tongue flicked stoic. He waited for the signal to alert him. He rubbed his crotch. Another five minutes had passed. He tried thinking about something else. A distraction. He could pay a bill. That would help. He opened another window. He listened for the signal. Glanced at the screen. It glowed in a colorful grid like a sordid and shameful all male rendition of the Brady bunch square. He couldn’t help but to refresh. He recognized a new face. Ugh, he thought, him. What’s he doing over here? He knew exactly what he was doing there, even as his contact went off line and the minutes passed. Sometimes there wasn’t a point. He may not have been ready and tempted fate too much. He may have been impatient trying to find him. Or something. Shallow as it was, fleeting and anonymous, the warmth it provided, wrapped itself around him and fired upon his flesh a memory he constantly desired.


“To Look In Vain” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All right reserved.



Celestial Hemorrhage


There is a nonchalance in the air of creativity. Ambiguity plays a vital part. Destruction in the dust of long lost memories and reticent goals. Integrity welling up in pools of deep sapphire. The dam, though cracked, is fortified and strong. Hands are reaching from the void. They scrape the blackened heavens, push the stars aside; they strike the sparkling orbs inside the eye. Beneath the waves and sullen wet horizon, a striking birth is moving a blessing in the air. The light that ruptures water into rolling waves, ascends, a celestial hemorrhage of starlight and dazzle. A warm promise is born, kissing heaven’s darkly tufted clouds, marrying life to exposition, and constant sharing of insights.