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  November/December 2012
volume 9 number 2
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  David Cravens
  Ivan Jenson
  Walter Ruhlmann
  Maryann Russo
  John Saunders
  David Scriven
  Apryl Skies
  Julia Stein
 
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David Scriven December 2012
   

 

bio


photo by dave scriven

    David Scriven is an environmental engineer who lives with his wife Lynn in the hinterlands of Western Riverside County. He does volunteer work for a non-profit religious organization, takes pictures, and plays harmonica in a band. He has two grown-up daughters. His photographs have appeared in the book Weird California and in several publications dealing with bugs.

   

 

Miniature Trailer

    I woke up last week and someone had parked a miniature trailer on my chest. A family was living there. Flapping laundry, rattling big wheels, and flying candy wrappers in the dust by day, barking dogs and blue flicker after dusk. I felt like objecting, but who can stop Progress? These tiny people are the engine of our great prosperity; and after all, does my body really belong to me? Does it belong to anyone? How can anyone own this temporary alliance of wild molecules, which will, one day, end up swirling around in the salty ocean?
    Maybe it will rain, and the trailer will be washed away in a flood or maybe the antics of tiny terrorists on their tiny TV will cause them to move to a safer place, like Canada. But now, right now, I dare not move a muscle. The little mother is singing her child to sleep.

copyright 2012 David Scriven

   

 

There is Nothing Inconsistant

There is nothing inconsistent
About believing that

Crane flies and hermit crabs
Are the silent messengers
Of the Great Spider Goddess
Who spins the web of fate
At the center of the Galaxy.

There is nothing inconsistent
About believing that
The smell of rotting flesh
Tells the presence of a ghost,
Or that the soul is torn by a sneeze,
Or that the angry gaze of a lizard
Foretells misfortune.

There is nothing inconsistent
About believing that
A man is evil,
Or good,
Or that words cannot hurt you.

copyright 2012 David Scriven

   

 

More Like a Lightning Bolt With Eyes

    More like a lightning bolt with eyes, or a walking sunset, looking down like a wedge of golden needles dripping with music. A dry wind pulled in, calling all the leaves and twigs and dust and ghosts to dance in concentric eddies as the light of the sky boiled down to a savory residue. I put out my hand, and it was very small against the towering billows of memory. The mirror reappeared, as it always does; even as the campfire burns, fueled by the cold, unending rain.

copyright 2012 David Scriven