Cigawrettes I've Known and Loved: fermentingdream

Cigawrettes I've Known and Loved is a series of excerpts from cignet users

i travelled with a cat once, it roamed the highways until dawn broke. Now it rests on my bed

among the files collected in my late father's house in Alberta were files of investigative reports in English, Italian and Russian on how to defraud orphans of their inheritance by convincing them they were saints from a remote tribe

reference numbers, protocol, secret codes and translated messages all seem to identify a group called The Purpose.

The snow is falling delicately on my head .. what a treat to be alive!

i think my father took something from me, but i cannot name what

i see him in the corner of the street, wearing my memories

we are dancing with his dog to a chorus of urban horns, the dusk song of mourners trampling by, a clown car of unearthly delight. he turns: i'm looking for someone's soul, and i'll kill anyone who stops me

i see him through the lampshade, wearing my own foolishness like a cat on the prowl

There were days when oblivion was a luxury

in the brisk winter air I breathe deeply. The sweet, familiar, scent of firewood wafts through my nostrils. I'm so glad to be home.

locusts, like trees, want to bear the seeds of enlightenment.

My father was born in Penchay, in the Autonomous Province, a place which consisted of his parents, a school teacher and 42 outcasts from the Sayuchev residences. These peoples had no need to drink water as they were able to formulate it through some ancient technique. Me? I drank.

All our childhood magic crept from the dusty carcass of human corpses

moths scatter from the logs, stitching words upon their wings, burning up as I send them into the sun tongues of smoke like dying gods rising from hell to touch your lips

from his pillow under the thick eaves of the wintry house in the land of his Sayuchev grandparents the Earth was cut in two

and when he stole my watch i finally knew. it was time we were all after

Bring me a healer, who sits meekly in the peaceful weight of her inscrutable nature

My father was a man of many words. He once said, "Good".

something’s grew with an intense life in me: i think i was on the road to it at that time but when my truck overturned on the freeway i spilled out all that i had as onlookers just drove by, curious for a moment, stopping for gas the next

in those days of darkness, the birch trees and wind-blown pines preside, but i can no longer gather their roots. now all that falls to the ground is dead like the people in the movies. and still, moss grows beneath the ashes

i am in love madam . i could live like this forever with you

Long gone are the days of my father’s towering presence.

pushing against you in the morning brings thought, i felt myself pulling back

i want to start in on a hegira across Middle America

Solitude. Distant church bells. Solitude.

this house does not have many boundaries and i am endlessly drawn to things like lamps and cabinets and often the upholstery.

today monsieur viroux and i watched amphibeans swarming the shore of the demaine river

ashes from my father's cigar, buried secrets sprout like weeds, this land has taken more than it ever gave

the bishop looked upon his congregation, a sea of questioning souls burdened by unanswered prayers, and I asleep in the pew

sometimes, I find my daughter singing to the moon.

the morning air is cooler in the north, i can feel the tree branches reaching out

rain falls in pitter-patters on the tin roof, and the coals are crisp this evening. the chickens are crowing from their nest.

drinking too much coffee i can hear the earth whispering to my feet

flirting with insanity, my whole form was contoured, my existence marked by sudden contact with vulnerable membranes rather than substance

catching stranded raindrops shimmering on window panes

I store memories underneath my floorboard bread crumbs. you'd scrutinize me while devouring morning sacraments in the pantry

until the roaring winds set the trees ablaze in alchemical transfiguration and every silver tear of sap drops to the ground to be muddled and lost, i will be here. tending to the land

The man slipped into my dream the way he had slipped into so many lives before

On a stormy summer night I went in search of my mind. A stranger in a land I thought I knew

pine needles linger by the stove, drier than sun-baked grass in summertime

my mother once told me God lives in the rain

my father died heroically then died of despair for his first death was not beautiful enough

I remember his stories of a knight of yinta and and white walls and a desk and blood spattered on the walls and r4rbgulwhafdsbi the last word the typewriter wrote

the moonlight cascades through the old oak tree dancing in the quiet night

lost car keys, worn-out shoes, railway stations humming the melody of a million transient stories

coffee simmers on the stove and the fogged window tells me nothing

so we swallowed our mother. A higher order of consciousness till we opened our eyes and learned the truth

After turning to stories I never wanted to know, the valleys called me ever closer dripping bloodlike from a misplaced morning shave

I am beginning to feel ambivalent about the loose beginnings and endings. Something tells me the jig is up, but it's too late. It simply does not matter.