I'm SorryI'm Sorry9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
today I accidentally
killed your ladybug
tangled in my mess of hair
onto my shoulder
not thinking I grabbed
for the tickle and
with a fingetip
on her round
and I watched her fade
Sisyphus and ISisyphus and I13 years ago in Humor More Like This
Or is it? The title confuses me. I can't seem to remeber anythign before, so we'll assume that it's day one. If it's day 5 or, worst case scenario, day 505, then I apologise in advance. It's a funny thign, amnesia, the sudden blackness where you feel you should actually know where and whenand how, and countless other question words.
But can't. I think the whole thign happened sometime before yesterday. I'm pretty sure it takes longer than an evenign to grow maybe a foot and a half of beard. I'd have to check on that fact with Docotr Galapogas. Knowledgeable that he is. In a few areas, at least. I'm not placign psychiatry on that list. But bizarre trivia and other thigns like that are certainly on his list of talents.
It just occurred to me, how would I remeber Docotr G
Making TimeMaking Time12 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Vacation with the Buxleys was unbearable. They were all about numbers. 197 miles to Scottsbluff. 24 minutes to the next Flying J. Barometric pressure is 29.1 and dropping. And they didn't just talk numbers; they brawled numbers. If any of the three Buxley machines - man, woman, or prepubescent - committed an error minute as a hundredth of a percent, it was the job of the other two to gang up on the mistaken party and chastise until all of their boxy foreheads were dewy with computational perspiration. This is why I hadn't said anything in 150 miles. 156, to be exact.
What started as a well-meant ploy by my mother to get me out of town for a week had now escalated into a hostage situation. I was perched in the backseat of a plasticky SUV with a strange family, afflicted with reading-in-the-car queasiness and a terminal no-rest-stop-for-300-miles bladder infection. My trip was spent staring absently out the window, pointedly avoiding any sort of dialogue with the Buxleys' ghastly, rabbit
Child of WarChild of War11 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
This is not a tale of tragedy or a lamentation, nor is it a glorification of war or peace, or an accusation of criminal nations who encouraged this war. It is simply a diary -- my life as a child of war, both frightening and exciting, where life was suspended but life went on anyway. A life neither happier nor sadder than that of any other child on the planet, but more unusual perhaps, and sometimes astonishing in how normal it all was to me. Which is why I like to share this piece of writing: I feel it is a unique perspective on this kind of event, as I have strived to keep it void of post-rationalisation and political context to keep it, as purely as possible, an insight into how this was experienced by a kid's mind, and for that I put myself back into my mindset of the time to write it. This shows in the "voice".
I was born in Beirut on September 11th, 1979, in the basement/shelter of the clinic where my mother had gone to give birth. We immediately left for Mu
dragdrag11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Of anathematized eggheads, dead poets, uprooted saddle-tramps -
an eclectic shangri-la that impales itself upon her sensibilities
like a beached whale on her shore
And this cold, small man-
call him Animus Annihilated-
"You wanna see Heaven baby?, Here's your chance." -
An open invitation to cool her heels in
the shadow of his soul.
Hoodwinked by her own loathsome ideal
she ogles the out-side,
staring through the cigarette that drips from her mouth,
into her love's eye
Wheel CountryWheel Country11 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
I imagine. I imagine I am hovering just below heaven, looking down on the earth lying quietly in the darkness of its own shadow. Looking down, hidden from the sun, to witness man discontent with the darkness, and his inventing of light. His fires, created or stolen from nature, the consequence of lightning and dryness, the divine manifestation of that singular holiness in the sky, broken off and fallen to earth as power and control, kept and reverently stoked, smoldering slowly in a sacred lacquered box, full of more problems than Pandora's.
I watch as man's fires flicker and expand into the darkness of the unknown, within which community is forged both to survive and enlighten, where language and, through language, art become the accidental occurrences of community, art then a consequence of survival. Watching as those fires are slowly tamed, flattened and thinned, poured like liquid lightning into tin containers and aluminum boxes, and flickers to life again in imit
FragileI'm okay with beingFragile8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
gripping the folds of too-big sweater,
like an extra skin
to compensate for her own,
pulled tight over a collection
I'm okay with being
while yet imagining her hip bones,
to be hips
knowing that she would never
achieve the hourglass femininity
I'm okay with being
Hostility Towards TerragenHostility Towards Terragen11 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Hostility towards the program terragen has always been present, and most likely, always will be. But let's get down to brass tacks. What is terragen? It's a 3d scenery generator. Right. There's no real Modelling process involved per se, and it looks and works completely different (to all means and purposes of the majority) to a 3d modelling application such as 3d studio max or Maya. It is comprised of a series of mostly numerical controls, and a few random generators based on numerical/slider inputs.
...this means, it's an easy program, and requires little or no effort to pull off good results.
Here's my favourite word of this article. WRONG.
The program is as deep as you want it to be, just as many other art orientated programs are. The quality of the results produced from it are proportional to the artists skill in using it. Just becau
Fulfillment through DepravityFulfillment through Depravity12 years ago in Horror More Like This
They call me crazy. I beg to differ. I'm sentenced to die only for their lack of understanding. So, here I sit day after day in this cold, lonely, dark jail-cell. Fed once daily, I'm slowly thinning away, still filled with the lust of my chosen delicacy and the hatred that was bred upon me. I don't know how long I've been here or how long I'll stay. No windows to the outside world are present to accompany me, only one diminutive hole near the top of the door shining in a small beam of light through from the prison corridor. I've grown somewhat accustomed to this new lifestyle of mine however bleak it may be in comparison to the stirring existence of my past.
I was born on August 13, 1974, putting me now at slightly over fifty years old. My mother unfortunately died during labor, leaving my single father to raise me alone. My unstable father was traumatized b
Grey boxesGrey boxes10 years ago in Typographical More Like This
I sit and watch,I watch the world.
I hear voices of men,they talk in electronic voices.
No conversation but of soft click of buttons.
They have nothing to say--nothing to say.
Shut off the world,so the numbers and words on screen--
Could be more and mutiply but shun the friends.
Nothing to share,dont have to share.
An occassional curses otherwise silence.
Maybe they had grown more at ease talking to grey boxes
They dont fight back, they listen and they are patient.
They are now everywhere--in the office and at home.
Most of all--they never get sick of you.
AngelicaAngelica (My Final Prayer)Angelica11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Darling jaded Angelica, can you hear me call?
Can you hear me from heaven; can you hear at all?
Is the sky blue life up there treating you so kind?
Sometimes I wish to join you and leave this world behind.
Oh Angelica, you cried so much before you had to leave
Was dying really the only way to save your sanity?
Angelica you'd died of a heartbreak I'll never understand.
You were already dead inside, though I was there to hold your hand.
Oh my stained Angelica, with your tainted soul,
Have angels bathed you tenderly and filled your growing hole?
In heaven do emotional wounds show like cuts then bleed?
And is anyone up there giving you the bandages you need?
Have they wiped the dirt of heartbreak yet so far away?
Are you beautiful again my love? Can you stay that way?
Has heaven purified you so that you'll never hurt again?
Is it really a new beginning, or…is it just the end?
Angelica, do you miss me, up in the sky so free?
When it rains down on the earth, is tha
God Is DeadGod Is Dead11 years ago in Humor More Like This
God's robes flapped around him as he looked over the edge and onto the street below.
"Don't do it! Don't do it!" cried the security guard behind him.
God said nothing, climbing onto the raised edge of the building. Five storeys below, people were beginning to take notice.
"Jesus Christ! Look!
"Oh my god!"
"Where's my camera?"
He turned and faced the security guard, who stopped walking and gazed upon the face of God. He'd been crying.
"But... why? You've got so much to live for..."
God gave a wan smile. "So have all of you."
He spread his arms wide, closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh, falling back and off the building.
* * *
A crowd was gathering around the black, sticky mess that remained of What-Once-Was Our Lord.
"Is he dead?"
"Who is it?"
"Where's my camera?"
The bystander effect was operating at maximum efficiency, causing everyone to just stand there and looked at the mangled remains. Presently, however, a fine upstan