tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57706009701554431032024-03-14T10:14:28.214-07:00Marcus Berkner JewelryI tell stories from life fragments -
arranging reality flat upon the page
until it shows signs of order.
Recently, the process has been here in this public space.Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.comBlogger280125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-75746089954749896162016-04-09T17:10:00.001-07:002016-04-09T17:10:05.977-07:00Coalescing shapes reappear<br />Briefly, without words<br />Filling quiet moments.<br />The little boy who lost his soul<br />casts a faint shadow on the ground.<br />
<br />
<br />Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-53987257343084792082015-07-29T22:47:00.000-07:002015-07-29T22:47:03.941-07:00As Peter the squirrel walked toward the male human's garden, he knew
what he was about to do was wrong; it might even get him killed.<br />
<br />
It was too late to change his mind, his eyes would not focus on
anything but the precious vegetables; the ones the male human so
tenderly worshiped. Peter ducked under the small barrier fence, walked
through the aging turnips wilting in the sun and approached the tall,
manicured tomato plants; swollen, red fruit hung rich and heavy on the
vine<span class="text_exposed_show">s. Peter stood at the side of the
plant for a moment, admiring the sculpted handiwork of the male human.
Peter then began tearing the fruit from the vine, pulling each tomato
off in the most destructive way, ripping the fruit apart and throwing
it's red, bleeding carcass onto the brown earth. One tomato for ever
humiliation heaped upon him over the years from the male human; one for
every bark and scare from the male human's wicked dog, for the constant
fear, the loss, for every time he had sat trembling from a near-miss.
Peter tore and ripped, slinging the vile fruit in a blind rage; the rage
no longer needed the catalyst of his flawed reasoning, simply rage and
fear and anger and humiliation. </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"> </span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
At some point, perhaps for lack of eligible fruit, or forgetting
exactly why he started, Peter the squirrel began to regain a bit of his
sense -- sufficient composure to exit the garden, travel back up his
hometree, glance down at the carnage and enter his house. Peter laid
down on his cot, pulled the flannel sheets over his head and slept for a
very long time.<br />
<br />
</div>
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-57011759797929188962015-07-29T22:46:00.001-07:002015-07-29T22:46:10.078-07:00The first time I watched Fried Green Tomatoes, yes I've seen it more
than once, it was the scenery that struck me the most. The outside
shots, at least, were filmed in my old stomping grounds. There is one
location in the film, a river that is flattened out and spills over a
dam, causeway? Not sure what its purpose is, but it is an odd sight,
then and now. I remember the place vividly from my childhood. When you
walk across, one side to the other, the entire river spilling ev<span class="text_exposed_show">enly
over the top, you get the sense that you are alternately walking on
water or falling sideways along with the water onto the rocks below.
Heaven and hell. Death and salvation.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
Recently, I started watching another show filmed in Georgia. Lo and
behold, another body of water from my past, perhaps an even more obscure
one at that. The stream has, or at least had, a unique ecosystem. It
flows primarily through gorges cut into stone so it was not as friendly
to the mud loving varieties of fish swimming around the Peach State.
Usually, when you have a body of water in Georgia, it fills with all
sorts of fish, cannot keep them out. This stream with its smooth pockets
of clear water was home to only one kind of fish - a lanky, strong
perch I've never seen anywhere else.<br />
<br />
In the movies, both places looked exactly as I remember them, every detail. Heaven and hell. Death and salvation.<br />
<br />
</div>
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-55565623135863305642015-07-29T22:45:00.001-07:002015-07-29T22:45:35.413-07:00Authorities confirm that sometime around 11AM on a sleepy West Coast
street, nothing particularly interesting happened. Eyewitnesses report
seeing veggies growing, weeds growing more and a large, unruly dog
yipping for waffle last bite.<br />
<br />
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-67332433960186997362015-07-29T22:44:00.002-07:002015-07-29T22:44:28.446-07:00we were young and brave beings<br /> reeking of desire<br />
<br />
we held youth in our right hand<br /> immortality in our left<br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
death cowered before us<br /> an impotent shell<br />
<br />
we were the first generation<br /> we were the last<br />
<br />
</div>
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-46399133820780012342015-07-29T22:43:00.003-07:002015-07-29T22:43:36.345-07:00"I must still be dreaming," thought Peter the squirrel, "What a ruckus!"<br />
<br />
"No I'm not dreaming," pinching himself on the ribs, "what could be causing all this noise?" he thought.<br />
<br />
Peter threw back his burlap bed sheet and walked over to the small
round window facing the WolfAndMan garden. At this very early hour, and
to his surprise, everyone that he knew was out near the garden; all the
village people, the WolfAndMan, night creatures, day creatures, flying
creatures, even the <span class="text_exposed_show">scurrying creatures
were bravely defying the encroaching sun. No one seemed to be afraid of
anything, not even fearful of the more menacing creatures in the crowd.
What's more, they were all dancing and whooping like they just didn't
care. Even Garden Snail who, on principle, never danced was dancing; he
didn't even dance at that mandatory dance thing last year, which turned
out to be a horrible mess; he was sentenced to seven days jail but
enjoyed it so much that he refused to leave, which is also illegal and
punishable by seven days jail... well you can see what a mess. Yes
Garden Snail was dancing, even leading the dance with some crude song
about a sailor's wife. He did not even seem to notice that WolfAndMan's
wife had resorted to cartwheels and that he was standing within the
general trajectory. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
"Has
the world gone mad?" Peter thought watching several village people
heartily stomping on his buried walnut patch, "ack... there goes my
nuts."<br />
<br />
"Oh... so you better not wink at the sailor's wife!" Garden Snail bellowed.<br />
<br />
</div>
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-15910803988188704382015-07-29T22:42:00.002-07:002015-07-29T22:42:18.723-07:00<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">
Lap
lap lap, the river keeps time against our craft, pulling us through the
dense forest. Lap lap, lap, it strokes the muddy banks on either side
of us, moving earth in and out of the reddish-brown artery. On this
third day of our journey, just past the sun's apex, we round a bend in
the river. The forest darkens, the sounds of the river become muted. Our
guide, crouching at the rear of our raft, moves us close to the bank on
the left, places his right hand on his throat, closes his eyes and
produces a long, deep guttural sound. Within a few seconds we hear
several creatures in the forest responding with the same unhuman sound.
Our guide tells us that we are now entering the Other.<br />
<br />
In less than an hour, we witness the first creatures belonging to this strange place.<br />
<br />
</div>
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-139133633574557692015-07-29T22:41:00.003-07:002015-07-29T22:41:36.568-07:00they had gathered for the great war...<br />
<br />
the badasses now squatting <br /> on the ground like scolded children<br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
the peacekeepers in purple nitrile<br /> laying hands on the dead<br />
<br /> pondering how far from <br /> sunday with the kids<br />
<br />
the condors circling above<br /> taking us one step closer</div>
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-50126991898754097702015-07-29T22:40:00.002-07:002015-07-29T22:40:25.823-07:00All flights are canceled<br /> till the fog lifts and the sun<br /> remembers its line.<br />
<br />
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-31916181435081330382015-07-29T22:39:00.002-07:002015-07-29T22:39:35.384-07:00no i cannot ignore<br /> that bottomless space<br /> that was you and i<br /> and everyone else<br /> when we performed<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> the unthinkable<br /> held and feared<br /> without reconciliation</span><br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
was it yesterday<br /> or forever ago<br />
<br />
</div>
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-28659755399203933872015-02-27T13:05:00.002-08:002015-02-27T13:05:30.556-08:00<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">
Sheila was having a better than average day. She'd felt well enough to locate Tramps leash and take him for a walk.<br />
As she stood on the side of the field, one among the long evening
shadows, everything stationary was stationary and pretty much where the
universe had put it. She could not shake the feeling, however, that
without Substance D, she was drinking the pastoral scene out of a stale
paper cup.<br />
<br />
</div>
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-73409653421962004742015-02-09T20:46:00.002-08:002015-02-09T20:46:49.416-08:00This was where the strange words spoken by madmen in faraway places were
kept. They were stored in dusty archives of tandeta, whispered into
matchboxes and placed in meticulously labeled wooden drawers. Lost words
with and without meaning.<br />
<br />
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-45087402338790633382015-01-30T16:11:00.002-08:002015-01-30T16:11:45.237-08:00Jay was kneeling down beside an old car in Mark's driveway. He had a
can of Armor All in one hand and an old cloth in the other. He was
rubbing the liquid into the ashy-gray bumper.<br />
<br />
Mark came out of the house and stood at a slant behind Jay. He watched silently for a bit.<br />
<br />
"Man I've never, our whole life, known you to wash your own car," he
said, "and here you are wasting good Armor All on this piece of junk."<br />
<br />
Jay kept coaxing the oil into the bumper. It was now turning a splotchy, but darker color.<br />
<br />
"I remember this black plastic bumper from when we were kids," Jay
said, "your brother used to park it here or over on A Street when he was
dating Carol. It always looked wet, even in the hot sun. Almost looked
alive."<br />
<br />
Mark watched Jay a while longer, made a clicking noise, then went back into the house.<br />
<br />
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-82514149287970552952014-11-30T20:26:00.001-08:002014-11-30T20:29:53.303-08:00death is male<br />
boats are gentle and kind<br />
and lust, what is its nature?<br />
<br />Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-81975785782557246432014-10-28T12:16:00.003-07:002014-10-28T12:16:48.055-07:00these are the words<br /> these are the secret words<br /> held deep underground quivering ember glowing<br /> with key lost in youth<br />
<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
words that flicker in candlelight<br /> whispered frighteningly and apologetically<br /> at the end of prayers<br />
<br />
gasping and wheezing unholy words<br /> that rise from deathbeds<br /> upon a world unbreakable and broken<br />
<br />
these are the words that hang <br /> in clouds on winter walks<br /> retold in dimly lit forests for eternity<br />
<br />
</div>
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-71400889832318023102014-10-23T20:03:00.002-07:002014-10-23T20:03:16.323-07:00"Give my clan more time to adjust," said the Dwarf Lord. <br /> "From a a tod I learned to drop your sort on sight, now I don't pull axe when I hear Elfchatter. This is a start."<br />
<br />
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-76256249017653199442014-09-25T16:31:00.002-07:002014-09-25T16:31:50.785-07:00Dustbunny limped down the street where Titmouse lived. He came to a
stop in front of her apartment. Two little girls were sitting on the
cement steps in front of her apartment. Both looked down at his weak
leg, one whispered to the other and they both giggled. Securely holding
on to the rail, Dustbunny executed the painful and embarrassing climb up
to Titmouse's front door and rang the bell.<br />
He could hear Titmouse coming to the door. <br />
"Hi," she said, a little out of breath.<br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
"Hey... I haven't heard from you in a while so I thought I would walk over and see how you are doing." <br />
"I'm fine," replied Titmouse, "I've kinda been busy."<br />
"Would you like to go get an ice cream or something?" Dustbunny shifted
weight onto his bad leg for a moment. He could hear the little girls
giggling again. He flushed.<br />
"Yeah. Let me get ready, I'll be
right out." Titmouse left Dustbunny with the porch, the handrail, his
bad leg and the giggling girls.<br />
She came back to the door
quickly, however, with a sweater draped over her arm. She took
Dustbunny's hand softly in hers, shooed the girls from off the porch and
they walked slowly down to the road.<br />
<br />
</div>
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-31491077769818372672014-09-25T13:57:00.004-07:002014-09-25T16:28:39.485-07:00This evening every type of cloud was <br />
thinly spread in the Autumn orange haze.<br />
The field, with wet and closing womb<br />
lamented it's eternal lord and sun<br />
falling incrementally from the sky<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> and the wind and the rain <br /> erased every line<br /> I had carved in the soil.</span><br />
<br />Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-9119056916304374392014-08-19T15:54:00.000-07:002014-08-20T17:18:50.254-07:00<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Dustbunny
spent the idle, late summer evening smoking opium from a small wooden
pipe, the lazy, gray-white smoke wafting over the already still hive
within his head. His thoughts remained unchanged, frozen from progress
or decay. Progressive decay.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> Decay for progress, or the soft lack of it. Or something. Or as he recalled, nothing. Curling rising. Lift shift dissipate.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> The universe resized itself to fit only the contents of his one<span class="text_exposed_show"> room cottage. Basking in the half-space of things, the marching of time also became lost in thoughts.</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br />
But then he remembered his pipe and remembered not remembering and the
things he chose not to remember came back sweetly and gently, cushioned
and without malice -- each thought in its time, lifted from the hive
within his mind, dancing unthreateningly in the smoke filled space that
was he and that he occupied.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-54320037673126248792014-07-29T18:21:00.004-07:002014-07-29T18:21:26.339-07:00<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Ran
into an old friend in a dream Friday night. Haven't seen him since my
late teens. He is the kind of guy that shows up too often in thoughts
and dreams, as if the remembrance of him is a metaphor of some sort. He
looked troubled in the dream and not able to gather the fragments of his
life between when we lost touch in our teens and Friday night. Old and
tired, he spoke a forgotten phrase, a dream words that never copy to
the page quite right.<br /> <br /> I replied something in the nature of, 'It will be OK', again in dreamspeak, where a single word can expand to near infinity.<br /> <br /> He calmed, faded, then disappeared. I woke up to a new feeling that with a bit of sorting, all might be OK.</span><br />
<br />
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-76054059220174334952014-07-27T17:52:00.002-07:002014-07-27T17:52:49.433-07:00<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Peter
the squirrel woke up more peaceful than he had been in a long time. He
slowly fell out of the night's last dream, some concoction from his
imaginings of Scandinavia and its fauna. He untangled himself from his
pet wolf, sat on the side of the bed and bathed in the cool-orange glow
of his den. <br /> <br /> No yesterday, no tomorrow. <br /> <br /> His withered
paw did not bother him as it usually does in the morning. It was there,
but it did not seem to matter that much, so pleasant was his mood.</span><br />
<br />
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-55018781277444475802014-07-16T17:34:00.002-07:002014-07-16T17:34:38.420-07:00<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">There
is a rift under my workshop desk which I call the Trader. I do not know
if it has shape and form, as I have never actually seen it. I am only
aware of its existence through its effect on small solid objects that
are accidentally dropped near it. Often, when I drop an jewelry piece
under my desk, it disappears -- hours of searching will not reveal its
whereabouts -- fallen through the rift in<span class="text_exposed_show">to to some Other Place. <br /> <br />
This is not the most inexplicable behavior of the rift, as it could
easily be argued that I am just terrible at finding lost items. There is
a stranger behavior that I attribute to the rift which I think happens
too often to be coincidence. When Trader accepts a new 'offering', it
then redeposits a long lost piece dropped under the desk in exchange,
often placing it in the most obvious, front and center, easy to find
location. The rediscovered item is usually a years-ago dropped jewelry
item that I searched for in vain before accepting it was probably gone
forever. <br /> <br /> I have crawled under the large bench many times in
search of unfinished pieces of jewelry or tools. The rift has never
accepted me as an offering, at least not that I have noticed. Maybe it
takes time to recharge, having too recently gobbled up a half-finished
ring or other trinket? If the Trader is large enough for a person to fit
into or through, I think I would like to visit the Land of Lost Items.
If I was accepted, I wonder what it would replace me with? And with what
might I be redeemed?</span></span><br />
<br />
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-40899172826053013062014-06-24T18:57:00.002-07:002014-06-24T18:57:45.491-07:00<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">"So, can the universe itself be thought of as merciful?" I then asked the garden snail.<br /> <br />
"I will never understand why humans insist on looking beyond themselves
when asking such questions" she replied, "like... like detached,
'intellectual' bystanders observing some great experiment."</span><br />
<br />
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-70915437696652081962014-06-15T19:43:00.002-07:002014-06-15T19:43:11.130-07:00<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">i cannot shake this<br /> illogical thought that<br /> some day chaos<br /> will align revealing<br /> that which whispers through<br /> the darkest and most<br /> frightening glass shattering<br /> filling the empty spaces<br /> with what was always present'</span><br />
<br />
Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770600970155443103.post-56869987523625446342014-05-18T18:41:00.002-07:002014-05-18T18:48:28.692-07:00<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">'always' promise frozen tender<br /> moments whispering 'remember me'<br /> as they fade away leaving<br /> gentle songs and mockingbirds<br /> that ring corridors of moonlit <br /> shadows that once shone</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">as the sun but soon are merely<br /> tiny breaths that move curtains<br /> among our inner thoughts<br /> swirl around with scents of summer<br /> far off places where we used to dance<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> scattered winds we try to hold<br /> but find ourself embracing<br /> half forgotten sweetly embellished<br /> frozen tender moments<br /> whispering 'remember me'</span></span><br />
<br />Marcus Berknerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11542295405255683216noreply@blogger.com0