Excerpt for Fractalverse: Volume Four by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Fractalverse: Volume Four

Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Copyright 2018 by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for supporting me and for respecting my hard work.


The manuscript to
Fractalverse: Volume Four
has been time-stamped

All rights reserved.

Cover designed by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

All fractals are by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Dedicated to those freed of the diseased clutches
of suburbanism and Trumpism, or working
with true vigor, dedication, and consistency
to free themselves.

Fractalverse: Volume Four



Thank You

A Simple Journey

After 3 A.M. In Her Soul



Before the Rain Came

Clive’s Outreach

Conversation With the Redwood

Cut From the Same Cloth

Dreadnought Lookout


En Gloriam sed Vanerrincourtiam

Fate, Up Against Your Will

Feeling and Stealing

From the Spirits

I’ll Be Back Tomorrow

Interstellar Caterpillar

Letting the Drain Take Me

Meadow Slumberflower

Pios of the Hac’th


Postponed and Made Up


Promise of a New Day

Reach of the Traveler

Really Not So Cross-Pollinated

Saved For Your Spirit

Storm of Conscience

The Afterdeath

The Carry Spirits On

The Clamshell of Del Nileppez

The First Ember of Renewed Hope

The Flame of Emalf

The Great Crystal Scaffold of Acadena Monarchies

Uncertainty Evolution

We’ll Eat Them When They Turn Off Their Headlights

XVI Angeli Magna Coronados

Dear Lord,

Thank you for the tremble and weave,
For osprey tracing high the pine-scented air,
For silver sheets of rainfall fair;
Where orange rays of draining daylight conceive

These verdant hills and tumbling creeks which sound
As through fluffs of cotton,
Through which this lonesome road winds forgotten;
Quiet walks remembered, and remembered I was found.

Thank you for this morning scene,
And fingers of fog lacing between,
For sudden bursts of golden finches, here now and then unseen;
For the life of my spirit which refutes the mean.

I want to thank you for my pounding heart
And the urge to strengthen it,
For the courage to fight my sloth and recommit
To living this life not apart

From the grace of your love,
The warmth of which
These seconds enrich
And rain down from above.

Thank you, dear Lord,

For these sterling moments of peace
Amidst the cackle of the insane,
Their corrupting, deafening grain;
These pauses that cease

The unremitting insults of the day
Carried beyond the pale,
Varied but dull, and brittle like shale;
Each step as it may

A cry, a supplication all its own,
Offered with and over the swirl and roar so pure;
The susurration, the crossroad, the cure
Here at last! At last be shown

The glory be, unsayable!
Touching! Lifting!
Gleaming! Sifting
These certain steps between uncertain novations prayable!

Thank you for the courage of my convictions
In this deluded and dangerous age;
For the friendship of the insistent Sage
And her reassuring valediction:

It isn't so bad, she says—
This time, this space,
This darkness so many embrace.
They live in pieces,

But the glory of God is one.
Truth cannot forever be denied,
And those who lied
The commonwealth will someday shun.

Thank you, Lord,
For the constant urge to create,
For the insatiable desire to mate
The contradictions. Lo the sword

Proclaims its own art,
Deeper than desire, more intense than pain,
The blank numbness against which I refrain
Any measure of victory; in this I impart

The whole of my soul.
Never to death or dust
Shall it give; nor to rust
And the unworthy jewels it stole.

So to you, dear Lord, I offer this,
What meager and gritty quarry
Is mine to give; the words in the story
So imperfect, so imprecise, but sure as a kiss.

They're mine but also not:
They're yours, truly, like this day, this moment, only mine by gift.
Thus is my wish to uplift,
But back to you, in the end, goes the entire lot.

In them and by them I have soared,
Through them and with them my heart has at last come alive.
So long afraid, so long merely to survive ...
Alive again, and so it sings: Thank you, dear Lord.


A Simple Journey


If I smile ...
... and that is clearly enough ...
then at moment, through or not felt—
and skin sternest test—
test moment felt enough ...
... smile?

(Or is it ‘smile—?’)

My grammar grandma objects.
Sense felt intellect condemnation clean towels made bed!
Washed up not felt up pressed delicate!

Gratitude? It’s above! Delicate? Like asphalt, maybe?
Am I supposed to smile now?
Pressed! Flowers grass rain muse fast apples tea!
Who’s counting?
Who’s reading?

After 3 A.M. In Her Soul


I pull over onto the thin shoulder, turn off the headlights,
and roll down the window.
I’m on a hill. The city spreads out before me, glittering and sparkling,
light-years away.

I wish I wasn’t sixteen years old. I wish I could stay sixteen forever.
The pulse in my ears sounds like electricity. It throbs in my heart and groin.

Cool, sweet air. My shirt still smells like her. It mingles with sleepy breezes.
I’m not remotely sleepy, and I’m dangerously far from home.
There my family dies slowly in bed.
She’s worried about me. She thinks I’m going to get my heart broken.
I am, but the pulse pounding through me is too strong to stop.
It’s inevitable. It all is.

I’m years from the precipice. I’m standing right on it.
I’m sixteen. I’m ravaged. I’m a fool.
I’m just a stupid kid. I’ve got no idea.
The stars twinkle above in steady, silent patience.
They’ve seen this before. Many, many times.
I’m nobody special.

I turn down the heat, turn up the Bob Seger, and drive down the hill.



Too many times I am caught up.
I can’t help myself.
I’ve tried to kill that part of me that keeps yelling,
keeps screaming, keeps complaining, keeps crying out.
But it won’t die.

How is it that so many find it so easy to watch it all
and just sit back and not say anything,
not do anything?
How does that work?
Honestly: please tell me. I really want to know!

How are days perceived by these people?
What does their food taste like?
What does getting drunk feel like?
What does coming feel like?
Surely it differs from what I feel.
Differs significantly.

You can see it in their eyes—that insensate, numb colorlessness.
It’s the reflection of the emptiness where their souls should be.
You can almost smell the stench of it as you pass them in their churches,
their malls, their political rallies, their cars, their amusement parks, their movie theaters.
It’s a lively stench in its unbeingness and death.
It invites even as it repulses:

Come. Become soulless like this sad fuck. It’s easier that way.
You don’t have to care anymore. You don’t have to strive anymore.
You don’t have to try anymore.
There is no justice. There is no hope.
There is only this flat, endless plain.
There is only the cracked earth beneath your feet.
It’s never going to come alive again.
That’s how they want it.
Accept. Just accept.



It doesn’t flow, really.
Not the way we think of flow.
Not like water.
Not like greed.

A million years looking up won’t change them.
Not even a little bit.
Wonder doesn’t flow.
It’s a beach ball or a sudden kiss or the denouement in a great film.
There or not there. That isn’t the question.

If you can’t feel it in the falling rain, then you can’t feel it at all.
The truck growled by yesterday, its occupants flat, dead, gone.
Zombies. Wonderless.

They rule the world, zombies.
They make the rules.
It’s their leaders that are in office.
It’s their hate scratched into the monuments.
It’s their monuments!
It’s their stench that darkens the sky and stings the nostrils.

The truck growled by as I, wandering, came to a tiny, forever-not-noticed creek
as it tumbled happily from glistening slate into a sliver of a liquid mirror next to the road.
Cat-tails, moss, tadpoles, white-yellow-red flowers ...

Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-8 show above.)