Brian Eisley
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brianeisley.bsky.social
Brian Eisley
@brianeisley.bsky.social
730 followers 110 following 1.7K posts
Abstract artist. Perennial student. Seeker of connections and hidden worlds.
Forever anti-fascist. 🏴🚩✊
Sacramento, CA, USA
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brianeisley.bsky.social
Success, they got it. Omw
October 27, 2025 at 1:21 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Drop an old person you are going to turn into the future.
October 21, 2025 at 8:19 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Every single one of these banners is a Hatch Act violation.
October 3, 2025 at 4:02 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
People water themselves down to broaden their prospects, but then they end up with people who don't fit those hidden parts. Best to let it all hang out and attract those who want it and will love you for it
Tweet from Owl! at the Library (@SketchesbyBoze): the older I get, the more I think the secret to love is just letting yourself be the world's biggest weirdo and finding someone who delights in and matches your weirdness
October 1, 2025 at 3:29 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
I'm not crazy about Newsom, for many reasons. But I will proudly stand with anyone, of any ideology, who is willing to defend our democracy against Trump. Literally nothing else matters. We can go back to squabbling over each other's purity after we've dealt with this existential threat.
August 21, 2025 at 8:46 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
August 21, 2025 at 3:46 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
July 20, 2025 at 4:25 AM
brianeisley.bsky.social
What's a poster you had in your room growing up?
June 23, 2025 at 12:16 AM
brianeisley.bsky.social
June 5, 2025 at 1:08 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
We have one, just over the river from downtown Sacramento. I've always thought it should be a lair for something.
June 4, 2025 at 5:33 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Can't believe nobody's posted this classic yet.
May 19, 2025 at 3:12 PM
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April 28, 2025 at 8:31 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
56

40plus Bluesky, tap in with a pic.
Me in a blue shirt holding a heart-shaped leaf.
April 25, 2025 at 10:23 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Yesterday's poem.
BOXES He sees three boxes before him, left, right, and center. Each is a black cube, roughly the size of his head, a large blue disc on the side facing him. He knows, instinctively, what each box contains. He opens the box on the left. Inside it are all of his pasts. The happy child of his earliest memories. The shy, withdrawn schoolboy, terrified of bullies. The frustrated teen, wanting to rebel but never quite finding the courage. The college student, impoverished and malnourished but ecstatic about learning. The bachelor, finally in control of his life. The husband who finished grad school, and then slowly fell apart as he failed to find work. The divorced office worker, contenting himself with weekend bursts of creativity. Slowly, with not a little sadness, he closes the lid on his past, and moves to the box in the center. Here are all of his presents. The dutiful boyfriend, trying to be someone's everything. The artist, weaving color into landscapes that shimmer and sway. The writer, throwing words together and hoping they'll stick. The dreamer, searching out connections between disparate facts to illustrate his grand theories. Smiling, he closes the box of the present, and turns to the final box, the box with all of his futures. The celebrity, renowned and rewarded for his genius. The retiree, collecting books and cats, and gradually going mad. The expat, quietly making art in some inexpensive part of the world. The vagrant, sleeping rough while his mind fades. The monk, retreating for good to the silence of his thoughts. He sighs, nods, and closes the box of his possible futures. He steps back, contemplates all three for a moment, then turns and walks away from all of it. All that he was, all that he is, and all that he ever could be. Brian Eisley 4/24/2025
April 25, 2025 at 7:53 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
New poem. Need to pick up the pace.
TIME Time is running out. There's a leak, a tiny crack in the vessel. There's a puddle on the table. The level is dropping in the container. The pool of time spreads slowly over the tabletop, drawing near to the edge. You grab a sponge to try to mop it up. But there's still more coming. As soon as you get the time under control in one place, it's started spreading again elsewhere. In desperation, you run and get a bigger container. The remaining time is heavy, but you manage to lift it up and pour it into the new vessel. A few last drops fall in, and the broken container is set aside. The leak is stopped. Now to clean up the time that’s spilled. Gradually you wipe up the puddle of time, squeezing the sponge out into the vessel. You try to recover every last drop. Finally, the job is done. You've saved as much time as you can. But now comes the hard part: figuring out what to do with it. Brian Eisley 4/23/2025
April 23, 2025 at 8:00 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Last night's poem. Memories of Burning Man.
PLAYA It's quieter out here, near where the real desert begins. It's never truly quiet. Sound carries. There are always distant snippets of music to be heard, or shouts, or engines. But out here, on the perimeter, near the trash fence that forms a pentagon around the city, it's quieter, especially during the day when the distant roar of the city is more subdued. I step off my bike, laying it carefully on the ground, and start to walk. I hear little more than the wind and the mysterious hum of the desert. The dry mud below my feet is cracked into irregular tiles whose edges crunch beneath my boots. The thin plastic barrier rustles in the breeze as I approach. I step up, lace my fingers in the holes, and gaze out at the featureless desert as it rolls off to the horizon, the deepest and most profound emptiness I've ever seen. (continued) (continued) I turn and begin walking back toward my bike, or, more accurately, toward the small structure next to it, a wooden box maybe eight feet square decorated like a New York subway entrance. Slanted railings create the illusion of descent into the earth as I enter the small room. There are cushions, and walls painted sky-blue, and handwritten messages of hope and love scattered across the walls. I sit for a while, and then add a message of my own, and make my way out to my bike. I travel on, the tires grinding the dry, dusty surface, until I spy a bed. A perfectly ordinary queen bed with sheets, pillows, and a quilt, on a brass frame sitting all by itself in the middle of the desert. I stop to look. Amazingly, the sheets are clean. The pillows are new and fluffy. And it's just the right time of day for a nap. I lay down, place my head on the pillow, close my eyes, and doze in comfortable silence in a bed in the middle of the desert. Brian Eisley 4/21/2025
April 22, 2025 at 7:35 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
New poem. Trying to get back in the groove.
April 21, 2025 at 1:01 AM
brianeisley.bsky.social
New poem. Now I'm only two behind.
DIG I swing the pickaxe. Sparks fly as the heavy steel point strikes the rock. I swing again. A spark. A few chips tumble to the floor. I look closely and spot a thin crack in the rock. Another swing. More chips fall from around the crack. The gouge deepens. A few more hits and I'm able to turn the tool around and place the wedge in the gap. I brace myself, take a breath, and pull with all my strength. The rock creaks, then a large wedge separates and begins to lean forward. I jump out of the way as the slab comes down. I look into the newly exposed surface. Amid the various shades of grey, a shimmer catches my eye. It's a word. Of course it's a word. It's what I'm working so hard to find. I carefully work it out of its stone bed and stow it in my bag. It's been a tough day today, but I've managed to find a decent selection in the mines. Now it's time to take them back home, and see if I can write a poem. Brian Eisley 4/19/2025
April 20, 2025 at 5:27 AM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Latest poem. Still one behind, but I'll catch up.
SUNFLOWER One day the boy walked around the side of the building and found a sunflower. It was growing out of a square patch of dirt, maybe eighteen inches on a side, just under the building wall, surrounded by concrete. The flower was at least three feet tall, almost as big as him. Its face was as big as his, too, its sunny yellow face surrounded by petals. He could not remember seeing anything so beautiful. He instantly loved it, and he wanted it to be healthy and happy. He didn't know much about flowers, but he knew you were supposed to water them. So he got an empty coffee can, took it to the outside faucet, filled it with water, carried it back to the sunflower, and poured out the water in the little patch of dirt. Then he carried the can back to the faucet, refilled it, brought it back to the sunflower, and poured it out again. At least four cans of water and when he was done the sunflower stood in the center of a brown puddle. He observed his work with satisfaction. Surely the flower would grow and thrive. He was happy at his good deed. The next day, the sunflower was lying flat on the concrete. His mother told him he'd given it too much. He thought about that for a long time. About how you could kill something so easily, with too much water, or maybe with too much love. Brian Eisley 4/17/2025
April 18, 2025 at 3:58 AM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Still a little behind on the poems. This should have been yesterday's.
RECLUSE I see you in there, coming up to the door and snarling Go away! and then vanishing once again. I hear your footsteps as you pace the walls of your fortress checking for weaknesses. Sometimes, when I knock, you'll open the door a crack and let me see you just for a moment. And then you're back behind your walls. I leave gifts, offerings perhaps, things I know you'll like, small items carrying huge meanings. When I come back, sometimes they're still there. But usually they're gone. Whether you accept them, or throw them away, I don't know. I don't know why you isolate yourself. I wish you could let yourself out and enjoy everything that's out here. I hate that the world can't see how beautiful you are. But I still come in the hopes that maybe one day you'll allow me in even if just for tea. Brian Eisley 4/16/2025
April 17, 2025 at 2:02 AM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Last night's poem.
DELPHI I stand before the opening. I light a torch and descend into the depths. It is cool and damp, and moisture clings to the spongy limestone of the walls. The path descends gradually. In the shifting flicker of light I start to see words on the walls. Soon I am reading memories, recalling forgotten momentss from past lives. Assembling a giant puzzle of Big Bird on the kitchen floor, an image taller than I was. Getting pushed off of the monkey bars and falling on my face. Reading Tolkien for the first time. Sitting in my room hearing my parents fight downstairs. I keep walking, down, down, and the fragments get longer, the images growing and connecting. Leaving home. Losing everything. College. Work. Relationships. The images come faster. Moving again. Starting to make art. Marriage. Divorce. Losing everything again. More work. More relationships. And always, always, the struggle to be myself instead of the unattainable ideal that I keep striving for that I keep punishing myself for not attaining. I keep going. At last, far, far down the hole, the path ends at a closed door. It is stone, it is thick, it is massive. And yet, when I test the door’s edge with my fingers, it gently shifts, so perfectly balanced, and allows me to tug it open. And yet, now, on the verge of learning the great secret buried deep in my soul, I hesitate. I consider. And at last I ask: Do I dare to know myself? Brian Eisley 4/14/2025
April 15, 2025 at 10:01 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Lunchtime poem.
Nobody knows what’s happening anymore. Nothing makes sense, meaning nothing is conforming to anyone’s expectations or preconceptions. The lessons learned in youth no longer apply. Your previous experience is not a guide. Past performance does not predict future results. The old maps no longer describe the territory as it shifts under our feet. But has it not always been this way? Perhaps our mistake is in believing that nothing will change, and that the way things are is the way they will always be. Brian Eisley 4/14/2025
April 14, 2025 at 8:05 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Yesterday's poem today. You'll get today's poem tomorrow.
April 14, 2025 at 4:08 AM
brianeisley.bsky.social
Here's the long poem I wrote Friday. Only just got around to editing it. I need to do two more today to get caught up.
April 13, 2025 at 7:42 PM
brianeisley.bsky.social
I didn't write a poem yesterday, so here we go.

I've decided that if I miss a day, it's okay to make it up the next day--as long as I stay on top of it and don't fall back any further. It's my personal creative project and I'm making the rules.
And now we approach the decision Whether to continue on the path Of greed and grasping Fear and fences And decrying empathy as a sin Or to recognize None of us can survive alone None of us is truly independent None of us is an island Even those who only take Must have somebody to take from The ancient lizard-brain cycle of dominance Must yield to the good will of others Who tolerate or indulge Those who think they don't need the rest of us And who may find at any time That tolerance has limits And indulgence can be withdrawn. Brian Eisley 4/11/2025
April 11, 2025 at 8:17 PM