Zachary Olson's Blog, page 3
March 28, 2024
Lucania — a reflection
The neighbor downstairs just died.
She was married to the architect of the building who, back in the 1960s, raised it up from nothing or from ruins. It’s hard to distinguish the two sometimes in Italy. They lived here ever since.
I say “here” because now it is our home. We moved into the upstairs apartment five months ago. The newcomers who did and do not speak the language except for very general acknowledgements, greetings, and a few ways to say goodbye.
The other residents in this eight story building have lived here for years or decades or half centuries longer than us. I am late to the party. While counting down each of the floors in the elevator, I have found myself asking, “What did I miss? What took me so long to get here?”
We never met her, our neighbor, we weren’t familiar, but she left behind a place for us. I hope the architect’s wife would find it comforting to know we too intend to build.
The only thing I know how to confidently say in Italian is “ciao” — a word for both hello and goodbye.
[image error]
March 24, 2024
mezza9— a poem
they couldn’t escape the atmosphere
the souls called up by gods aplenty
no force could pull them beyond the veil
and so with nowhere else to go they
collected year after decade century
until the sky grew thick with spirits
wandering the edges of their tank
eternity within sight, no relief at hand
caught at the corners of mortality
Photo by Yolanda Djajakesukma on Unsplash[image error]
March 7, 2024
speak. — a poem
sometimes always
i do not trust myself
to words:
(& i do not trust
the bees
as they hover
linger
drift
petal to
petal to
get their point across)
when i speak aloud:
my words wobble
like sheets of metal
& they drip quietly
like grape popsicles
& my tongue forgets
it is the strongest muscle
Photo by Volodymyr Hryshchenko on Unsplash[image error]
February 19, 2024
jupiter actual. — a poem
Photo by February 16, 2024
clover. — a poem
on the other side of the hill
beneath the orchard’s crown
i found you with your smoking gun
a hand raised to block the sun
as it played at the fringe of your gloves
i couldn’t help but notice as you stood tall
in the clover patch, a zenith of evolution
with a veil of silver pulled tight tucked
you enchanted me abundant
wrapping me in vapor
sunk sick in sleep i was
drawn to slumber
here hum a melody
my melancholy beekeeper
you have captured me
forever enraptured me
Photo by Tyler Casey on Unsplash[image error]
February 6, 2024
the heron, the gauze — a poem
isn’t it funny how
where we end up
plan it like it’s just
just so predictable
by low sell high
when it’s really in
the margin there
outside the lines
peripheral pause
waiting patient
for you to blink
away wet years
see yet beyond
the small life
in a ziploc bag
handed to you
when you arrived
Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Unsplash[image error]
January 30, 2024
scullery & moulder. — a poem
each time reliable
when the chimney smokes
a moment ties itself together
knotted layer upon layer
membranes feather-joined
until all is one and
a loop of creaking moments
called forward
close your eyes
put out your hand
something sweet
wood wrought burning
the shifting shape of memory
a wreath of transportation
Photo by Bruno Fernandez on Unsplash[image error]
January 25, 2024
JAC CORIANDER: INSPECTOR ABROAD — Chapter Five: Fodder In Law
“So tell us what happened after Cannon escaped.”
The silk voice made Jac shiver. She peered out into the audience, squinting her eyes to see beyond the crooked stage lights.
“W-where’s my sister? Do you have my sister?”
The crowd laughed.
“You’re so random, I love it. I’m sure your sister’s just fine. Mind telling us about Andy Cannon’s escape? There’s got to be a good story there.”
Jac looked into the wings. Casper stood beaming from side stage, gesturing for her to turn around and continue the interview. But Jac held little interest in answering questions from someone who had greasily introduced himself as “Bobby Coburn, creator of true crime podcast The Limestone Dispatch and humble host of this lovely congregation of Coriander superfans.” Who the fuck is this guy?
“Andy jumped back into the police car and then…?”
She looked around the stage, but there was no way off except the way she had come, which was blocked by Casper. The microphone hit Jac’s knee and made a soft thud through the speakers. She sat there for a long moment, her jaw opening and closing on its own, trying to find words. Any words. Come on, Jac! Get your shit together.
The truth was, when she thought about the day on the bridge, her mind went blank. She wrote the report, knew the chain of events that happened, but it felt like someone else had lived them. I need a pint of huckleberry cider immediately.
“Maybe we should move on to another question.” Bobby Coburn’s voice echoed Jac back to reality. “Although we’re all dying to know what happened with your Mr. Cannon — I’m sure our great Purveyor will let us know in the next chapter, whenever it gets published.”
Jac found her words.
“The Purveyor. Tell me who that is. I need to know.”
“Well, that’s — that’s you of course!” Bobby grinned, motioning widely to Jac.
“Me!?” The words started to disappear again. “I’m not -”
The crowd shuffled forward, pulling chairs a few inches closer, holding beers tighter.
“I’ve never heard of The Purveyor until I was invited here. It — uh — it said: The Purveyor bids your immediate attendance…”
Her vision began to narrow. Jetlag is the real deal. Jac stood up, set the microphone on the chair behind her, and walked to the front of the stage. Sitting down hard against the edge, she slid into the audience, which parted slightly to allow her a path. The door squeaked as Jac exited and slipped into the dusk. A crowd left without answers as she set out to find her own.
[image error]
January 18, 2024
just chalk (or fire) — a novelette
Caitlin Gutierrez, a high school sophomore, harbors a secret from her well-meaning but overbearing family. When the cast list for the school play is revealed, her world takes an unexpected and life-altering turn. A story of self-discovery, teenage ambition, and the liberating power of letting go.
Buy my new novelette as a Paperback! or on Kindle!
[image error]
January 10, 2024
chronograft. — a poem
i daydream starships
passing in the night
built to withstand the unthinkable
rebuilt when the unthinkable happens
welding scar languages
lap-jointed across the hull fray
bootstrap twang-ties holding
together ballooning cargo bays
interior beams creak-moaning
with sudden trajectory changes
the population dwindles
the fuel is running dry
enemy vessels spotted
through the electric periscope
all calculations tally imminent defeat
& yet the mission sticks the course
Photo by Levi Stute on Unsplash[image error]
