Month: November 2025

• Victrola Stitches

  

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  A white farmhouse in a Texas field

  A green screen door opens

  The spring makes that sound of stretching

  Then it slams, that sound of slamming

  A lifeless two-lane highway runs by it

  The windows upstairs look down upon it

  There, a thick tree with a worn tire swing

  Miles of flat all around

  No hills

  Dirt, sun

  A warm ticking in the guts

  The belly of the house is still

  There’s the air of time passed

  A machine of 10,000 years

  Going forward, going back

  A green couch

  A wood-burning stove

  Memories smoke

  The fissures in time reveal

  People not there but still walking

  The man upstairs in the bed looks at the window

  A lone semi rolls by

  The last rays of sun splatter loneliness

  The radio comes on

  Old music

  The man in the bed ponders Heaven

  And now he knows he has dreamt this very moment

  He can see the future

  Like a movie in his sleeping head

  Victrola stitches and lamp oil

  No electricity, save for that in his hands

  He can set fire to the doldrums if he so chooses

  Dying God

  Dying angel

  Dying ancient man

  

  By

  Aaron Echoes August

• Breakfast in Bergen

  

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  And I awake with an itching in my soul

  Barbells of thought weighing me down

  And then I get overwhelmed

  And the panic sets in

  Dry mouth, racing heart

  Worry climbs a mountain

  I just want to live free of all the shit

  What is this world and where exactly is it?

  I know it is merely a speck on a star map

  Interplanetary breeding

  A colony for the criminally insane

  Black hearts rule

  Hoisted into position by ignorant fools

  Why must I awake and run, run, run

  Just a brick in a wall

  Another cog in the corporate machine

  Why can’t I just do what I want to do?

  Why can’t we just be left alone to our own whims and wishes?

  The wages of sin are sinful wages

  I want to have breakfast in Bergen

  With a warm woman by my side

  And go to the countryside by the ocean

  To breathe and feel like we were meant to

  To not be a poor waste of a life

  

  By

  Aaron Echoes August

• Glass of Atlas

  

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  Those bad mojo memories

  Coming back to foil and kick

  A decent day turned down low

  Shadow records play in the dusk-lined room

  One lonely bed, one lonely chair, one lonely window

  Views of the widows on the walk

  Black dresses and veils

  Black roses, black nails

  Thinking about the dark side of the moon

  And all that goes on there

  The alien architecture

  Mind-blowing our own

  Like this sad skin ensconced in velvet

  Super-highway brain through the guardrail

  Over the cliff

  Into the rocks

  Fireball

  I mutter madness and everyone stares

  I walk into a room, and everyone laughs

  I choke on my own thoughts

  Word salad

  I trace the odd patterns of my life

  The spills upon the atlas

  Journeys and slaveries

  The people, the pain, the pardons

  I could have never been

  What I wanted to be

  Back then

  Those muddled visions

  Of architect, engineer, wanderer, ghost

  My mind would never have allowed me to make it through

  I would have been derailed in the very beginning

  I never had a normal purpose

  I will always be somewhere else

  Up here, over there

  A collection of handcrafted obstacles

  As I ricochet from path to path

  Like a spinning diamond cutting stone

  Fragments littering this ethereal Earth

  

  By

  Aaron Echoes August

• Evaporation

  

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  Time evaporates like water in Death Valley

  Saturday sweaters feel good in cold winter houses

  A man looks out the large picture window in the living room

  The streets are still save for one lone kid tramping through the snow

  He looks up to the sky, stretches his arms out

  And begins to fly

  

  By

  Aaron Echoes August

• Autumn Moon

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  A Tennessee moon dangled in the sky at dusk-plus tonight, casting glows across the heavens and Earth.

  

  By

  Aaron Echoes August